UCSB  LIBRARY 


IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS 


TN  THE  MIDST   OF 
I  .      •      •      •      •      • 

PARIS 

J91/ALPHONSE  DAUDET 


TRANSLATKD   BY 

CELINE  BERTAUI/T 


YORK 

PLATT,  BRUCE  &  COMPANY 

70  FIFTH  AVKXUIS 

1896 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 

BY 
PLATT,  BRUCE  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.  THE  SIEGE 13 

II.  THE  ENSIGN 32 

III.  ARTHUR 40 

IV.  DREAMS ,,»*.,* « 

V.  VOYAGE  CIRCULAIRE ,»% 71 

VI.  IN  THE  STUDIO 88 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


I.  ALPHONSE  DAUDET 4 

II.  TO  ARMS  ! — TO  ARMS  ! 11 

III.  AU  DRAPEAU 35 

IV.  PLACE  DE  LA  CONCORDE , 50 

V.  IN  THE  STUDIO  ..  .140 


|N  THE  HIDST  OF 

PARIS 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    SIEGE. 

E  were  returning  up  the 
avenue  of  the  Champs 
Elysees  with  Doctor  V., 
asking  him  about  the 
walls  riddled  with  shells,  the  pave- 
ments torn  up  by  grape-shot,  in  fact, 
the  history  of  the  Siege  of  Paris, 
when,  just  before  we  got  to  the  Place 
de  1'Etoile,  the  doctor  stopped,  and 
pointing  out  one  of  those  handsome 
corner  houses  grouped  around  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  said  : — 

13 


14        J^  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

"  Do  you  see  those  four  closed 
windows  up  there,  over  the  balcony  ? 

"  In  the  early  days  of  the  month  of 
August — that  terrible  August  of  the 
year  '70 — so  charged  with  storms  and 
disasters,  I  was  called  in  there  to  a 
frightful  case  of  apoplexy.  It  was 
to  Colonel  Jouve,  a  cuirassier  of  the 
First  Empire,  an  old  man  infatuated 
with  patriotic  pride  who,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  war,  had  come  to 
lodge  in  the  Champs  Elyse'es,  in  a 
balcony  apartment.  Guess  why  !  To 
be  present  at  the  triumphant  return 
of  our  troops  !  Poor  old  man  !  The 
news  of  Wissembourg  came  to  him 
as  he  was  rising  from  table.  On 
reading  the  name  of  Napoleon  at  the 
foot  of  that  bulletin  of  defeat,  he  fell 
thunderstruck. 

"  T  found  the  old  cuirassier  stretched 
at  full  length  on  the  carpet,  his  face 


THE  SIEGE.  15 


bloody  and  lifeless,  as  if  he  had  been 
struck  a  blow  on  the  head  with  a  club. 

"  Standing,  he  must  have  been  very 
tall ;  lying,  he  looked  immense.  With 
beautiful  features,  superb  teeth,  and 
a  fine  head  of  curly  white  hair, 
though  he  was  nearly  eighty,  he 
looked  like  sixty  years  old.  Near 
him,  on  her  knees,  was  his  grand- 
daughter. She  so  resembled  him 
that,  seeing  them  side  by  side,  you 
would  have  been  reminded  of  two 
beautiful  Greek  medals  struck  from 
the  same  stamp  ;  only  the  one  was 
old,  dull,  and  rather  indistinct  in  the 
outlines ;  the  other  was  resplendent 
and  clean  cut,  with  all  the  brilliancy 
and  smoothness  of  a  new  impression. 

"  The  grief  of  this  child  touched 
me.  Daughter  and  granddaughter 
of  soldiers,  her  father  was  at  Mac- 
Mahon's  headquarters,  and  the  sight 


Iti        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  HIS. 


of  this  grand  old  man  stretched 
hefore  her  brought  another  no  less 
terrible  image  to  her  mind. 

"  I  endeavored  to  reassure  her,  but, 
in  reality,  I  had  little  hope.  We 
had  to  deal  with  a  severe  case  of 
hemiplegy,  and  recovery  was  scarcely 
to  be  hoped  for  at  eighty.  For  three 
days  the  patient  remained  in  the 
same  state  of  motionless  stupor.  In 
the  midst  of  all  this  the  news  of 
Reischoffen  arrived  in  Paris.  You 
remember  in  what  a  strange  fashion. 
Until  evening  we  all  believed  in  a 
great  victory,  20,000  Prussians  killed, 
and  the  Crown  Prince  a  prisoner  ! 

"  I  know  not  by  what  miracle,  or  by 
what  magnetic  current,  an  echo  of 
the  national  joy  penetrated  to  our 
poor  deaf-mute,  even  to  his  paralyzed 
limbs  ;  certain  it  is  that,  on  approach- 
ing his  bed  that  evening,  I  found  him 


THE  SIEGE.  17 

a  different  man.  His  eye  was  almost 
clear,  his  tongue  less  stiff.  He  had 
strength  to  smile,  and  to  stammer 
twice,  '  Vic-to-ry  ! ' 

"  '  Yes,  Colonel,  a  grand  victory  ! ' 

"  And  as  I  gave  him  details  of 
MacMahon's  brilliant  success,  I  saw 
his  features  relax  and  his  face  light 
up.  When  I  went  out,  the  young 
girl  was  waiting  for  me,  standing- 
pale  and  sobbing  at  the  door. 

"  '  But  he  is  saved  ! '  said  I,  taking 
her  hands. 

"  The  unhappy  child  had  scarcely 
courage  to  answer  me.  The}-  had 
just  posted  up  the  true  version  of 
Reisohoffen  —  MacMahon  put  to 
flight,  the  whole  army  crushed.  We 
looked  at  each  other  in  consternation. 
She  was  distressed  in  thinking  of  her 
father. 

"I  trembled  for  the  old  man.  It 
2 


18         IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


was  very  certain  he  could  not  resist 
this  new  shock.  And  yet,  what 
could  we  do  ?  Leave  him  his  joy — 
the  illusions  which  had  called  him 
back  to  life  ?  But  then  it  would  be 
necessary  to  lie  ! 

" '  Very  well,  then,  I  shall  lie,' 
sa!;l  the  heroic  girl,  quickly  drying 
her  tears,  and  she  returned  radiant  to 
her  grandfather's  room. 

"  She  had  set  herself  a  hard  task. 
The  first  few  days  were  got  through 
without  much  difficult}*.  The  good 
man's  head  was  weak,  and  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  deceived  like  a  child. 
But  with  returning  health,  his  ideas 
became  clearer. 

"  We  had  to  keep  him  acquainted 
with  the  movements  of  the  armies 
and  to  draw  up  for  him  military 
bulletins.  It  was  a  sad  pity  to  see 
that  beautiful  girl,  night  and  day, 


THE  SIEGE.  19 


over  her  maps  of  Germany,  marking 
out  the  battles  with  little  flags,  and 
trying  to  invent  a  glorious  campaign  : 
Bazaine  descending  upon  Berlin, 
Frossard  in  Bavaria,  MacMahon  on 
the  Baltic.  For  all  this  she  asked 
my  advice,  and  I  helped  her  as  much 
as  I  could,  but  it  was  the  grand- 
father himself  who  served  us  best 
in  this  imaginary  invasion.  He  had 
conquered  Germany  so  often  under 
the  First  Empire  !  He  knew  all  the 
moves  beforehand:  'See,  now  they 
will  go  there,  they  will  do  that,'  and 
his  forecasts  were  always  realized, 
which  did  not  fail  to  make  him  very 
proud. 

"  Unfortunately  it  was  in  vain  that 
we  took  towns  and  gained  battles  ;  we 
never  went  fast  enough  for  that  insati- 
able old  fellow  !  Every  day, when  I 
arrived,  I  heard  of  a  new  feat  of  arms. 


20         /A7  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  li  18. 


"  '  Doctor,  we  have  taken  Mayence,' 
the  young  girl  told  me,  coining  to- 
wards me  with  a  heart-breaking  smile, 
and  I  heard,  through  the  door,  a  de- 
lighted voice  crying: — 

ki  '  We're  getting  on  !  We're  get- 
ting on  !  ...  In  a  week  we  shall 
enter  Berlin  ! ' 

"  At  that  moment  the  Prussians 
were  not  more  than  a  week  from 
Paris.  .  .  .  AVre  asked  ourselves  at 
first  whether  it  would  not  be  better 
to  remove  him  into  the  country  ;  but, 
once  outside,  the  state  of  France 
would  have  revealed  everything  to 
him,  and  I  thought  him  still  too 
weak,  and  too  much  stunned  by  the 
great  shock  lie  had  already  received, 
to  know  the  truth.  It  was  decided, 
therefore,  to  let  him  remain. 

'•  On  the  first  day  that  Paris  was 
invested,  T  went  up  to  their  house,  I 


THE  SIEGE.  21 

remember,  much  moved  with  the 
anguish  of  heart  that  the  closing  of 
all  the  gates  of  Paris,  the  battle 
under  the  walls,  and  the  changing 
of  our  villages  into  frontiers  brought 
us.  I  found  the  old  gentleman  jubi- 
lant and  proud. 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  '  here  is  the  siege 
begun  !  ' 

"  I  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"•  '  What,    Colonel,    do   you   know 


"  His  granddaughter  turned  to 
me  :  — 

"  '  Ah  !  yes,  Doctor.  That  is  the 
great  news.  The  Siege  of  Berlin 
has  commenced.' 

"  This  she  said,  drawing  out  her 
needle  with  such  a  staid  little  air, 
and  so  tranquilly  —  how  could  he  sus- 
pect anything  ? 


22        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

"  The  cannon  from  the  forts  !  He 
could  not  hear  them.  This  poor 
Paris,  wretched  and  convulsed !  He 
could  not  see  it. 

"  What  he  could  see  from  his  bed 
was  a  bit  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
and  in  his  room  was  a  whole  curiosity 
shop  of  the  First  Empire,  well  cal- 
culated to  maintain  his  illusions. 
Portraits  of  Marshals,  engravings  of 
battles,  the  King  of  Rome  in  a  baby's 
robe ;  then  large  stiff  consoles,  or- 
namented with  copper  trophies,  laden 
with  Imperial  relics,  medals,  bronzes, 
a  stone  from  St.  Helena,  under  a 
shade,  miniatures — all  representing 
the  same  lady,  becurled,  in  ball  cos- 
tume, in  a  yellow  dress  with  leg-of- 
mutton  sleeves,  and  bright  eyes — it 
was  all  this,  the  atmosphere  of 
victories  and  conquests,  much  more 
than  anything  we  could  tell  him, 


LU& 


that  made  the  brave  Colonel  be- 
lieve so  naively  in  the  Siege  of  Ber- 
lin. 

"  From  that  day  our  military  opera- 
tions were  very  much  simplified.  To 
take  Berlin  was  now  only  an  affair 
of  patience. 

"  From  time  to  time,  when  the  old 
man  became  too  impatient,  a  letter 
was  read  to  him  from  his  son  —  an 
imaginary  letter,  of  course,  since 
nothing  could  now  get  into  Paris, 
and  because,  since  Sedan,  Mac- 
Mahon's  aide-de-camp  had  been 
drafted  off  to  a  German  fortress. 
Imagine  the  despair  of  that  poor 
child,  without  news  of  her  father, 
knowing  him  a  prisoner,  deprived  of 
every  comfort,  perhaps  ill,  and  yet 
obliged  to  make  him  speak  in  those 
cheerful  letters  —  they  were  rather 
short  letters,  as  might  be  expected 


24        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


from  a  soldier  in  the  field — of  ad- 
vancing steadily  into  the  conquered 
country. 

"Sometimes strength  failed  her, and, 
consequently,  there  were  weeks  with- 
out any  news.  But  the  old  man  got 
uneasy,  and  could  not  sleep.  Then 
promptly  came  a  letter  from  Ger- 
many, Avhich  she  brought  and  read 
gayly  to  him  at  his  bedside,  keeping 
back  her  tears.  The  Colonel  listened 
religiously,  smiled  with  an  intelligent 
air,  approved,  criticised,  and  ex- 
plained to  us  the  difficult  passages. 
But  where  he  was  especially  fine 
was  in  the  answers  he  sent  to  his  son  : 
'  Never  forget  that  you  are  a  French- 
man,' said  he.  '  Be  generous  to  those 
poor  people.  Do  not  make  the  in- 
vasion too  heavy  for  them.'  And 
then  there  were  endless  recommenda- 
tions, adorable  twaddle  about  respect 


THE  SIEGE.  25 

for  the  proprieties,  the  politeness 
due  to  ladies — in  fact,  a  complete 
code  of  military  honor  for  the  use  of 
conquerors !  He  added  also  some 
general  observations  on  politics,  and 
the  conditions  to  be  imposed  on  the 
conquered.  On  that  point,  I  must 
say,  he  was  not  unreasonable. 

"  '  A  war  indemnity,  and  nothing 
further.  What  is  the  good  of  taking 
their  provinces  ?  Can  you  make 
France  out  of  Germany  ?' 

"  He  dictated  all  this  with  a  firm 
voice,  and  one  felt  there  was  so 
much  candor  in  his  words,  such 
a  fine,  patriotic  faith,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  listen  to  him  un- 
moved. 

"  All  this  time  the  siege  was  ad- 
vancing— not  that  of  Berlin,  alas  ! 
It  was  a  time  of  great  cold,  bom- 
bardments, epidemics,  and  famine. 


26        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


But,  thanks  to  our  care,  our  efforts, 
and  the  indefatigable  tenderness 
which  surrounded  him,  the  serenity 
of  the  old  man  was  never  for  an  in- 
stant disturbed.  Up  to  the  end,  I 
was  able  to  get  him  white  bread  and 
fresh  meat. 

"  There  was  only  enough  for  him, 
and  you  can  imagine  nothing  more 
touching  than  those  breakfasts  of  the 
grandfather,  so  innocently  selfish — 
the  old  man  upon  his  bed,  fresh  and 
smiling,  his  serviette  tucked  under 
his  chin  ;  near  him  his  granddaughter, 
a  little  pale  from  her  privations, 
guiding  his  hands,  giving  him  drink, 
helping  him  to  all  those  forbidden 
good  things.  Then,  revived  by  the 
repast,  in  the  comfort  of  his  warm 
room,  with  the  winter  wind  outside, 
and  the  snow  whirling  past  his  win- 
dows, the  old  cuirassier  recalled  his 


THE  SIEGE.  27 


campaigns  in  the  north,  and  related 
to  us  for  the  hundredth  time  that  sad 
retreat  from  Russia,  in  which  they 
had  nothing  to  eat  but  frozen  biscuit 
and  horse-flesh. 

"  '  Do  you  understand,  little  one  ? 
We  used  to  eat  horses.' 

"  She  understood  only  too  well. 
For  two  months  she  had  eaten  noth- 
ing else.  From  day  to  day,  however, 
as  convalescence  progressed,  our  task 
beside  the  invalid  became  more  diffi- 
cult. That  paralysis  of  his  senses, 
and  of  all  his  limbs,  which  had  served 
ns  so  well  up  to  this  time,  began 
to  disappear.  Two  or  three  times 
already  the  terrible  volleys  from  the 
Maillot  Gate  had  made  him  start, 
and  prick  up  his  ears  like  a  grey- 
hound ;  we  were  obliged  to  invent  a 
last  victory  for  Bazaine,  under  Ber- 
lin, and  salvos  fired  in  his  honor  at 


28         IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

the  Invalides.  Another  day  his  bed 
had  been  moved  to  the  window — it 
was,  I  believe,  the  Thursday  of  Rezon- 
ville — rand  he  saw  the  National 
Guards  massed  together  on  the 
Avenue  of  the  Grande  Arrnee. 

" '  What  are  those  troops  doing 
there?'  he  demanded;  and  we  heard 
him  mutter  between  his  teeth  :  '  Bad 
form !  bad  form  ! ' 

"  Nothing  else  happened  ;  but  we 
understood  that,  in  future,  we  must 
take  great  precautions.  Unhappily, 
we  were  not  cautious  enough. 

"  One  evening  when  I  arrived  the 
child  came  to  me  full  of  trouble. 

"  '  It  is  to-morrow  they  enter,'  she 
said. 

"  Was  the  grandfather's  door  open  ? 
The  fact  is,  that  in  thinking  over 
it  afterwards,  I  remembered  that  his 
face  had,  on  that  evening,  an  extraor- 


THE  SIEGE.  -29 


clinary  expression.     It  is  probable  that 
he  heard  us. 

"Onl}'  we  spoke  of  the  Prussians, 
while  lie  thought  of  the  French,  in 
that  triumphal  entry  which  he  had  so 
long  expected — MacMahon  coming 
down  the  avenue  in  the  midst  of 
flowers  and  the  flourish  of  trumpets, 
his  son  beside  the  Marshal,  and  lie, 
the  old  father,  upon  his  balcony,  in 
full  uniform,  as  at  Lutzen,  saluting 
the  torn  flaq;s  and  the  eagles  black- 

o  o 

ened  with  powder. 

u  Poor  father  Jouve  !  He  doubt- 
less fancied  that  we  wished  to  pre- 
vent him  from  being  present  at  this 
march-past  of  the  troops  to  avoid  too 
great  an  excitement  for  him. 

"  He  took  care  to  speak  to  no  one  ; 
but  the  next  da}-,  at  the  very  hour  in 
which  the  Prussians  were  timidly  en- 
tering on  the  long  road  leading  from 


30        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

the  Maillot  Gate  to  the  Tuileries, 
the  window  just  above  there  opened 
softly,  and  the  Colonel  appeared  on 
the  balcony,  with  his  helmet,  his  big 
cavalry  sword,  and  all  the  glorious 
equipment  of  a  Milhaud  cuirassier. 

"  I  still  ask  myself  what  effort  of 
will,  what  fresh  spring  of  life,  could 
have  thus  placed  him  again  on  his 
feet,  and  in  harness !  Be  that  as  it 
may,  there  he  was,  standing  behind 
the  railing,  wondering  to  find  the 
avenues  so  wide,  so  silent  ;  the 
shutters  of  the  houses  closed  ;  Paris 
dismal  as  a  lazaretto ;  flags  every- 
where, but  so  strange,  all  white  with 
red  crosses,  and  no  crowd  running 
before  our  soldiers. 

"  For  a  moment,  he  may  possibly 
have  thought  he  was  mistaken 

"  But,  no !  Yonder,  behind  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  was  a  confused 


THE  SIEGE.  31 

noise,  a  black  line  advancing  in 
the  growing  daylight.  .  .  .  Then, 
gradually,  the  peaks  of  the  helmets 
shone,  the  little  drums  of  Jena  began 
to  beat,  and  under  the  Arc  de  1'Etoile, 
accompanied  by  the  heavy  rhythmic 
steps  of  the  troops,  and  by  the  clash 
of  sabres,  burst  forth  Schubert's 
Triumphal  March. 

"  Then,  in  the  mournful  silence  of 
the  place,  rang  out  a  cry,  a  terrible 
cry  :  '  To  arms  ! — to  arms  ! — the 
Prussians  ! '  And  the  four  Uhlans 
forming  the  advanced  guard  saw 
yonder  on  the  balcony  a  tall,  old 
man  wave  his  arms,  totter,  and  fall, 
rigid. 

"  This  time  Colonel  Jouve  was 
really  dead." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    ENSIGN. 
I. 

I  HE  regiment  was  engaged 
on  the  banks  of  a  railway, 
and  served  as  a  target  to 
the  whole  Prussian  army 
massed  in  an  opposite  wood.  They 
were  firing  on  each  other  at  a  distance 
of  eighty  yards.  The  officers  shouted, 
"  Lie  down  !  "  hut  no  one  would  obey, 
and  the  proud  regiment  remained 
standing,  gathered  round  their  colors. 
In  the  great  horizon  of  the  setting 
sun,  of  cornfields,  of  pasture  land,  this 
confused  group  of  men,  enveloped  in 

32 


THE  EX  SIGN.  33 

smoke,  were  like  a  flock  of  sheep  sur- 
prised in  the  open  country  by  the  first 
whirlwind  of  a  terrific  storm. 

It  rained  iron  on  that  slope !  noth- 
ing was  heard  but  the  crackle  of  the 
volleys  and  the  prolonged  vibration 
of  the  balls  which  flew  from  one  end 
of  the  battle-field  to  the  other.  From 
time  to  time  the  flag-,  which  waved 
overhead  in  the  wind  of  the  mitrail- 
leuse, disappeared  in  the  smoke,  then 
a  voice  grave  and  steady,  dominating 
the  firing,  the  struggles  of  the  dying, 
the  oaths  of  the  wounded,  would  cry : 
"  Au  drapeau,  mes  enfant  s,  an  dra- 
peau!" Instantly  an  officer,  vague 
as  a  shadow  in  the  red  mist,  would 
spring  forward,  and  the  standard,  once 
more  alive  as  it  were,  showed  again 
above  the  battle. 

Twenty-two  times  it  fell.  Twenty- 
two  times  its  staff,  still  warm,  slipping 
3 


34        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


from  a  dying  hand,  was  seized  and 
upheld,  and  when,  at  sunset,  what 
remained  of  the  regiment — scarce  a 
handful  of  men — retreated  slowly, 
firing  as  they  went,  the  colors  were 
mere  rags  in  the  hands  of  Sergeant 
Hornus,  the  twenty-third  ensign  of 
the  day. 

II. 

SERGEANT  HORNTJS  was  a  crusty 
old  war-dog,  who  could  hardly  write 
Ins  own  name,  and  who  had  taken 
twenty  years  to  gain  his  sergeant's 
stripes.  All  the  miseries  of  a  found- 
ling, all  the  brutalizing  effects  of 
barrack-life,  could  be  traced  in  the 
lo\v  projecting  forehead,  the  back  bent 
beneath  the  knapsack,  that  air  of  care- 
less self-neglect  acquired  in  the  ranks. 

Besides  all  this  he  stammered,  but 
then  eloquence  is  not  essential  to  an 


THE  ENSIGN.  35 


ensign.  On  the  evening  of  the  battle 
his  colonel  said  to  him,  "  You  have 
the  colors,  my  brave  fellow;  keep 
them.''  And  on  his  coarse  hood, 
frayed  by  war  and  weather,  the  viv- 
andiere  stitched  the  gold  band  of  a 
sub-lieutenant. 

This  had  been  the  one  ambition  of 
his  humble  life.  From  that  moment 
he  drew  himself  up ;  lie  who  was  wont 
to  walk  with  bent  head  and  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground,  henceforth  looked 
proudly  upwards  to  the  bit  of  stuff 
which  he  held  very  straight,  high 
above  death,  treachery  and  defeat. 
Never  was  there  a  happier  man  than 
Hornus  on  days  of  battle,  holding  his 
staff  firmly  in  its  leather  socket  with 
both  hands. 

He  neither  spoke  nor  moved,  and 
was  as  serious  as  a  priest  guard- 
ing some  sacred  thing.  All  his  life, 


36        7.V  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  KIS. 


all  his  strength,  were  concentrated 
in  the  fingers  grasping  that  gilded 
rag  upon  which  the  balls  beat  so  per- 
sistently, and  in  his  defiant  eyes  look- 
ing the  Prussians  full  in  the  face.  ;is 
if  saying,  "  Try,  if  you  dare,  to  take 
it  from  me !  " 

No  one  did  try,  not  even  death. 

After  Borny,  after  Gravelotte, 
those  murderous  battles,  the  colors 
came  out,  tattered,  in  holes,  trans- 
parent with  wounds,  but  it  was  still 
old  Hornus  who  carried  them. 

III. 

THEN  came  September  with  the 
army  around  Metz,  the  investment, 
and  that  long  pause  when  the  cannon 
rusted  in  the  mud,  and  the  finest 
troops  in  the  world,  demoralized  by 
inaction,  want  of  food  and  want  of 


THE  EX  SIGN.  37 


news,  died  of  fever  and  ennui  beside 
their  piled  arms.  No  one,  neither 
chiefs  nor  soldiers,  had  faith  in  the 
future ;  Horn  us  alone  was  still  con- 
fident. Mis  ragged  tricolor  was  all 
in  all  to  him,  and  as  long  as  he  could 
see  that,  nothing  seemed  lost. 

Unfortunately,  as  there  was  no 
more  fighting,  the  colonel  kept  the 
colors  at  his  house  in  one  of  the 
suburbs  of  Metz,  and  poor  Hornus 
was  much  like  a  mother  whose  child  is 
out  to  nurse.  He  thought  of  it  con- 
stantly. Then  when  the  yearning 
was  too  much  for  him,  he  went  off  to 
Metz,  and,  having  seen  it  still  in  the 
same  place,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
he  returned  full  of  courage  and  pa- 
tience, bringing  back  to  his  dripping 
tent  dreams  of  battle  and  of  advanc- 
ing marches,  with  flying  colors  float- 
ing over  the  Prussian  trenches. 


38         IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


An  order  of  the  day  from  Marshal 
Bazaine  put  an  end  to  these  illusions. 
One  morning  Horn  us  on  awakening 
found  the  whole  camp  clamorous, 
groups  of  soldiers  in  great  excite- 
ment, uttering  cries  of  rage,  all  shak- 
ing their  fists  towards  one  side  of  the 
town  as  though  their  anger  were 
roused  against  some  criminal.  There 
were  shouts  of  "  Away  with  him  !  " 
"  Let  him  be  shot !  "  And  the  offi- 
cers did  nothing  to  prevent  them. 
They  kept  apart  with  bent  heads  as 
if  ashamed  of  being  seen  by  their  men. 
It  was  indeed  shameful.  The  Mar- 
shal's order  had  just  been  read  to 
150,000  fighting  men,  well  armed  and 
still  efficient — an  order  which  sur- 
rendered them  to  the  enemy  without 
a  struggle  ! 

"  And  the  colors  ?  "  asked  Hornus, 
growing  pale.  The  colors  were  to  be 


THE  ENSIGN.  39 


given  up  with  the  rest,  with  the  arms, 
with  what  was  left  of  the  munitions 
of  war — everything. 

"  To-To-Tonnerre  de  Dieu!"  stut- 
tered the  poor  man.  "  They  shan't 
have  mine.''  And  he  started  at  a  run 
towards  the  town. 

IV. 

HERE  also  there  was  great  dis- 
turbance :  National  Guards,  civilians, 
gardes  mobiles  shouting  and  excited, 
deputations  on  their  way  to  the  Mar- 
shal ;  but  of  this  Hornus  saw  and 
heard  nothing.  All  the  way  up  the 
Rue  du  Faubourg  he  kept  saying  to 
himself: 

"  Take  my  flag  from  me  indeed ! 
It  is  not  possible.  They  have  no 
right  to  it !  Let  him  give  the  Prus- 
sians what  is  his  own,  his  gilded 


40        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


carriages,  his  tine  plate  brought  1'ioni 
Mexico  I  But  that,  it  is  mine.  It  is 
my  honor.  I  defy  any  one  to  touch 
it." 

These  fragments  of  speech  were 
broken  by  his  rapid  pace  and  by  his 
stammer,  but  the  old  fellow  had  his 
idea  notwithstanding;'  a  very  clear 
and  defined  idea — to  get  the  standard, 
cany  it  to  the  regiment,  and  cut  his 
way  through  the  Prussians  with  all 
who  would  follow  him. 

When  he  reached  his  destination 
lie  was  .not  even  allowed  to  enter  the 
house.  The  colonel,  furious  himself, 
would  see  no  one  ;  but  Hornus  was 
not  to  be  put  off  thus. 

He  swore,  shouted,  hustled  the 
orderly ! 

"  My  flag,  I  want  my  -flag."  At 
last  a  window  opened. 

"  Is  it  you,  Hornus  ?  " 


THE  ENSIGN. 


"  Yes,  Colonel ;  I- 


"  The  colors  are  all  at  the  arsenal — 
you  have  only  to  go  there  and  you 
will  get  an  acknowledgment." 

"  An  '  acknowledgment !  What 
for?" 

"  It  is  the  Marshal's  order." 

"  But  Colonel " 

"  Leave  me  alone,"  and  the  window 
was  shut. 

Old  Hornus  staggered  like  a 
drunken  man. 

"  An  acknowledgment,  an  ac- 
knowledgment," he  repeated  me- 
chanically, moving  slowly  away, 
comprehending  only  one  thing,  that 
the  flag  was  at  the  arsenal  and  that  he 
must  get  it  again,  no  matter  at  what 
price. 


42         /A"  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


V. 


THE  gates  of  the  arsenal  were  wide 
open,  to  allow  the  passage  of  the 
Prussian  wagons  which  were  drawn 
up  in  the  yard.  Horn  us  shuddered. 
All  the  other  ensigns  were  there, 
fifty  or  sixty  officers  silent  and  sor- 
rowful; those  sombre  carts  in  the 
rain,  with  the  men  grouped  bare- 
headed behind  them,  had  all  the 
aspect  of  a  funeral. 

In  a  corner  the  colors  of  Bazaine's 
army  lay  in  a  confused  heap  on  the 
muddy  pavement.  Nothing  could  be 
sadder  than  these  bits  of  gay-colored 
silks,  these  ends  of  gold  fringe  and 
of  ornamented  hafts,  all  this  gloriou? 
paraphernalia  thrown  on  the  ground, 
soiled  by  rain  and  mud.  An  officer 
took  them  one  by  one,  and  as  each 


THE  ENSIGN.  43 

regiment  was  named,  its  ensign  ad- 
vanced to  receive  an  acknowledg- 
ment. Two  Prussian  officers,  stiff 
and  unmoved,  superintended  the 
ceremony. 

And  must  you  go  thus,  oh  sacred 
and  glorious  flags  ! — displaying  your 
brave  rents,  sweeping  the  ground 
sadly  like  broken-winged  birds,  with 
the  shame  of  beautiful  things  sullied? 
With  each  of  you  goes  a  part  of 
France.  The  sun  of  long  marches 
hid  in  your  faded  folds.  In  each 
mark  of  a  ball  you  kept  the  memory 
of  the  unknown  dead  falling  at  random 
around  the  standard,  the  enemy's 
mark  ! 

••  Horn  us,  it  is  your  turn,  they  are 
calling  you  ;  go  for  your  receipt." 

What  did  he  care  about  a  receipt! 

The  flag  was  there  before  him.  It 
was  his,  the  most  beautiful,  the  most 


44        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  KIS. 


multilated  of  all  And  seeing  it 
again,  he  fancied  himself  once  more 
on  that  railway  bank.  He  heard  the 
whistling  balls  and  the  colonel's 
voice.  "  Au  drapeau,  mes  enfants  ?  " 
He  saw  his  twenty-two  comrades 
lying  dead ;  himself,  the  twenty-third, 
rushing  forward  in  his  turn  to  sup 
port  the  poor  flag  which  sank  for 
want  of  an  arm.  Ah  I  that  day  he 
had  sworn  to  defend  it  to  the  death — 
and  now ! 

Thinking  of  all  this  made  his 
heart's  blood  rush  to  his  head.  Dis- 
tracted, mad,  he  sprang  on  the  Prus- 
sian officer,  tore  from  him  his  beloved 
standard,  tried  to  raise  it  once  more 
straight  and  high,  crying  "  An- 

dra "     But  the  words  stuck  in  his 

throat — he  felt  the  staff  tremble,  slip 
through  his  hands.  In  that  paralyz- 
ing atmosphere  that  atmosphere  of 


THE  ENSIGN.  1;> 


death  which  weighs  so  heavily  on 
capitulated  towns,  the  standard  could 
no  longer  float,  nothing  glorious 
could  live.  And  old  Hornus,  too. 
choked  with  shame  and  rage,  fell 
dead- 


- 


CHAPTER  III. 


ARTHUR. 


OME  years  ago  I  was  living 
near  the  Champs  Elyse'es, 
in  one  of  the  small  apart- 
ments in  the  back  court  of 
the  Douze-Maisons.  Imagine  if  you 
can  such  an  out-of-the-way  human 
hive  in  the  suburbs,  nestling  in  the 
midst  of  those  big  aristocratic  ave- 
nues that  are  so  cold  and  quiet  that 
it  seems  as  if  one  could  pass  them 
complacently  only  in  a  carriage.  I 
do  not  know  what  whim  of  a  pro- 
prietor, what  mania  of  an  old  miser 
it  was  thus  to  leave  in  the  midst  of 
these  beautiful  surroundings  those 
46 


ARTHUR.  47 

empty  lots  and  small  uncultivated 
gardens ;  those  low  houses,  all  lop- 
sided with  creaky  staircases  on  the 
outside  ;  and  their  wooden  verandas 
full  of  clothes-lines,  rabbit-cages,  and 
dozing,  emaciated  cats.  Here  lived 
several  households  of  work-people, 
retired  small  shop-keepers,  and  a  few 
artists — the  latter  one  finds  in  every 
place  where  there  are  trees.  There 
were  also  here  one  or  two  boarding- 
houses  of  sordid  aspect,  covered  with  a 
crust  of  generations  of  misery.  Amid 
the  splendor  and  noise  of  the  Champs- 
Elyse*es  could  be  seen  and  heard  a 
continuous  rolling  of  carriage«^vheels, 
a  clanking  of  harness-chains,  and  the 
tramp  of  horses'  feet,  filling  the  whole 
avenue  ;  while  the  slamming  of  front 
doors  and  half-smothered  sounds  of 
pianos  and  violins  came  from  a  long 
string  of  grand  houses  with  rounded 


48        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PA1US. 

architectural  curves ;  their  windows 
shaded  by  light  silk  curtains,  through 
which  one  could  perceive  the  gilded 
candelabra  and  the  rare  flowers  in 
the  jardinieres. 

This  dark  little  street  of  the  Douze- 
Maisons,  lighted  only  by  a  single 
gas-lamp  at  the  end,  was  like  the  stage 
wing  of  some  grand  theatre,  com- 
pared with  its  beautiful  surroundings. 
All  the  refuse  of  this  luxurious  quar- 
ter sought  shelter  here ;  clowns  in 
tights,  English  stablemen,  circus- 
riders,  two  little  postilions  of  the 
Hippodrome,  with  their  twin  ponies, 
bill-posters,  goat-carriage  attendants, 
Punch  and  Judy  men,  sweetmeat- 
vendors,  and,  last  but  not  least,  a 
whole  tribe  of  professional  blind  men, 
who  came  back  at  night  bearing  their 
chairs,  accordeons,  and  little  tin 
money-cups.  One  of  these  "  blinds  " 


ARTHUR.  49 

was  married  while  I  lived  there. 
That  meant  for  us  a  whole  night  of 
"music";  a  medley  of  discordant 
sounds  of  clarionettes,  flutes,  lijmd- 
organs,  and  accordeons,  in  which  one 
could  easily  recognize  every  bridge 
of  Paris  by  the  different  melodies. 
Generally,  however,  the  passage  was 
as  quiet  as  the  majority  of  its  resi- 
dents, who,  as  I  have  said,  came  back 
after  night-fall  and  were  too  tired  to 
be  noisy. 

But  late  Saturday  night  there  was 
always  sure  to  be  a  great  racket  in 
the  street,  for  it  was  then  that  Ar- 
thur received  his  week's  pay. 

Arthur  was  my  neighbor. 

A  low  wall,  covered  by  a  clinging 
vine,  was  the  only  separation  between 
my  apartment  and  the  furnished 
rooms  in  which  he  lived  with  his 
wife  and  children.  Therefore,  in 
4 


50        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


spite  of  myself,  his  life  was  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  mixed  with  mine,  and 
every  Saturday  night  1  heard  with- 
out a  chance  of  missing  the  least  item, 
the  horrible  Parisian  drama  enacted 
in  that  household  of  work-people. 

It  would  always  begin  in  the  same 
manner;  the  wife  making  ready  the 
dinner  while  the  children  stood 
around,  she  talking  to  them  while 
busy  preparing  the  evening  meal. 
The  clock  would  strike  seven  and 
then  eight  o'clock,  and  still  no 
Arthur  had  come.  As  the  time 
passed,  her  voice  would  change  in 
tone  and  become  pathetic  and  full  of 
tears.  The  children  would  get  hun- 
gry and  sleepy  and  l>egin  to  cry,  and 
as  the  father  had  not  yet  come  they 
would  eat  without  him  and  then  go 
to  bed  and  sleep  like  a  lot  of  little 
chickens. 


ARTHUR.  51 

The  mother  would  come  out  on 
the  piazza  and  mutter  between  sobs, 
"  Oh,  the  scoundrel,  the  scoundrel  I  " 
Neighbors  coming  home  would  see 
her  there  and  say,  sometimes  pity- 
ingly : 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  bed,  Mrs. 
Arthur  ?  You  know  he  will  not 
come  home,  as  it  is  his  pay-night." 

Sometimes,  they  would  linger 
awhile,  mixing  a  little  advice  with 
much  gossip. 

"If  I  were  you,  I  would  do  so  and 
so." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  his  em- 
ployer ?  " 

"  Your  father  ought  not  to  allow 
it,"  etc.,  etc.,  till  they  had  exhausted 
their  stock  of  remedies  for  such  cases 
as  hers. 

But  all  this  pity  and  advice  would 
only  make  her  cry  and  lament  the 


52        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


more.  She  would  still  persist  in  lier 
hope,  in  her  waiting,  until  completely 
unnerved. 

At  last  the  street  would  become 
quiet,  and  all  doors  would  close,  but 
she  still  remained  there  with  but  the 
one  idea,  relating  to  herself,  and  alone, 
all  her  sorrows,  with  that  abandon  of 
the  lower  classes  which  always  lives 
half  its  life  in  the  street.  She  would 
speak  of  rent  behind,  of  creditors 
tormenting  her,  the  baker  refusing 
bread. 

What  would  she  do  if  he  again 
came  home  without  his  money  ? 

At  last,  overcome  with  fatigue,  ex- 
hausted by  watching  belated  passers- 
by,  she  would  go  in.  Long  after, 
when  I  thought  everything  was  quiet, 
I  would  hear  her  cough.  She  was 
again  on  the  stoop,  brought  back  by 
anxiety,  straining  her  eyes  to  look 


ARTHUR.  53 

down  the  black  street  and  seeing 
nothing  there  but  misery  and  dis- 
tress. 

Towards  one  or  two  o'clock,  and 
often  later,  some  one  would  ring  at 
the  end  of  the  passage.  It  was 
Arthur  coining  home.  Usually  he 
had  a  companion,  dragging  him  to 
the  very  door  and  urging  him  to 
enter.  Then  he  would  loiter  around, 
undecided  whether  to  enter  as  yet, 
well  knowing  the  reception  that 
awaited  him. 

In  climbing  the  stairs  to  his  rooms, 
llie  silent  house,  sending  back  the 
sounds  of  his  heavy  footsteps,  like  so 
many  remorses,  seemed  to  embarrass 
him.  He  would  stop  before  every  one 
of  those  misery-hovels,  on  his  way 
up,  and  shout  :  "  Good-evening, 
Madame  Weber  ;  "  or  "  Good-night, 
Madame  Mathieu."  Then  if  he  re- 


54        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


ceived  no  .answer  lie  would  fling  at 
them  an  assortment  of  vile  epithets 
and  oaths  until  every  one  in  the 
neighborhood  had  been  aroused,  and 
the  doors  and  windows,  open  to 
answer  him  with  insults  and  curses. 
That  was  exactly  what  he  was  wail- 
ing for.  The  wine  he  had  drunk 
seemed  to  provoke  quarrels  and  fights. 
When  he  had  once  worked  himself 
into  a  rage  then  he  had  no  fear  in 
going  home. 

That  home-coming  was  the  climax 
of  the  affair.  Approaching  his  door, 
he  would  find  it  locked  and  then  he 
would  shout :  k%  Open !  It  is  I ! "  Then 
I  would  hear  the  bare  feet  of  the  wife 
on  the  cold  tiles  ;  the  scratching  of 
matches ;  and,  at  last,  the  opening 
of  the  door.  The  man  on  entering 
would  begin  stammering  out  his 
story,  always  the  same.  He  had 


ARTHUR.  55 

met  comrade  so  and  so,  who  worked 
on  the  railroad,  or  at  the  wharf,  and 
they  had  .spent  the  evening  together. 
The  woman  would  not  even  listen, 
but  would  interrupt  him  repeatedly 
with  inquiries  for  money.  At  last  he 
would  answer : 

"The  money?  Oh,  I  haven't  any 
left,  you  know  I " 

"You  lie!" 

He  was  indeed  lying.  Even  in  the 
excitement  of  his  debauch  he  would 
always  reserve  a  few  sous,  thinking 
of  the  great  thii-st  which  would  tor- 
ment him  on  the  following  Monday. 
It  was  that  small  remainder  of  his 
pay  which  his  wife  was  now  trying  to 
Sfet  from  him. 

O 

She  would  hang  on  him,  shake  him, 
search  him,  and  turn  all  his  pockets 
inside  out.  After  a  few  moments  I 
would  hear  the  money  rolling  over 


56         iy  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


the  tiles  and  tlie  woman  throwing 
herself  on  it  in  triumphant  glee. 

Then  I  would  hear  swearing  and 
smothered  blows.  The  drunkard 
was  revenging  himself.  Once  begin- 
ning to  beat  .her,  he  would  not  stop. 
The  terrible  suburban  wines  which 
lie  had  imbibed,  by  this  time  mounted 
to  his  brain,  had  now  crazed  him. 
The  woman  would  howl,  the  furniture 
would  be  smashed,  the  children  would 
begin  screaming,  and  then  in  the 
street  the  windows  and  doors  would 
fly  open  again  and  I  would  hear : 

"  It's  only  Arthur."  "  He's  making 
a  bigger  row  though  than  ever,"  and 
such-like  remarks. 

Sometimes  the  father-in-law,  an  old 
rag-picker  living  in  the  next  room, 
would  come  to  his  daughter's  assist- 
ance. Arthur  would  lock  the  door  so 
as  not  to  be  disturbed  in  his  opera- 


ARTHUR.  57 

tions,  and  then  a  most  sickening  and 
horrible  dialogue  would  take  place 
through  the  keyhole. 

"Haven't  you  had  enough,  with 
your  two  years  in  jail?"  the  old 
man  would  cry.  Then  the  drunk- 
ard would  reply  in  bantering  tones  : 

"  Well,  yes,  I  have  been  in  prison 
two  yeai^,  but  what  of  that?.  I've 
paid  my  debt  to  society  ;  when  will 
you  pay  yours?  :' 

But  if  the  old  man  would  again 
speak  of  the  prison-episode  and  dwell 
too  long  on  that  fact,  Arthur  would 
angrily  open  the  door  and  fall  heavily 
over  his  father-in-law,  mother-in-law, 
and  neighbors  who  had  collected  on 
the  landing  outside.  Then  would 
ensue  a  general  m§l£e,  after  which 
Arthur  would  be  carefully  picked  up 
and  put  to  bed,  to  sleep  off  his  de- 
bauch. 


58        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

Yet,  with  all  this,  he  was  not  a 
bad  man.  Often  on  Sunday,  the  day 
following  those  awful  scenes,  the 
drunkard,  now  appeased,  without  a 
cent  with  which  to  buy  drink,  would 
spend  the  day  at  home.  They  would 
bring  the  chairs  out  of  their  rooms 
and  spend  the  day  on  the  balcony. 

Madame  Weber,  Madame  Mathieu, 
and  the  whole  house  would  congre- 
gate there,  and  they  would  talk  and 
gossip  ;  Arthur  of  course  being  their 
leader. 

You  would  have  thought  him  one 
of  those  model  working-men  who 
patronize  night-schools.  He  would 
speak  in  a  low  soft  voice,  eloquently 
putting  forth  fragments  of  ideas, 
which  he  had  caught  here  and  there, 
upon  the  rights  of  the  working 
classes  and  the  tyranny  of  capital- 
ists. His  poor  wife,  subdued  by  the 


ARTHUR.  59 

beating  of  the  previous  night,  would 
look  at  him  with  new  admiration, 
forgetting  the  wrongs  he  had  inflicted 
on  her. 

The  neighbors  would  ask  him  to 
sing,  and  he  would  render  in  his 
throaty  voice  full  of  false  tears, 
"  Les  Hirondelles "  by  Belanger. 
Oh  !  that  voice,  and  the  stupid  senti- 
mentalism  of  the  lower  classes.  It 
was  enough  to  drive  all  but  his  de- 
voted listeners  indoors. 

The  neighbors  looked  tearfully  out 
at  the  pale  blue  sky  as  Arthur 
finished,  and  wondered  if  he  would 
now  become  the  ideal  man  of  their 
kind. 

But  no  ;  this  little  scene  of  soft- 
ness did  not  prevent  him  from  com- 
ing home  drunk  the  next  Saturday 
night  to  beat  his  wife  anew  and 
arouse  the  neighborhood. 


60        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

There,  in  the  midst  of  that  mis- 
ery, was  a  small  army  of  other 
Arthurs,  waiting  but  for  the  years  to 
pass  that  they  might  be  old  enough 
to  drink  their  pay  and  beat  their 
wives  too. 

And  it  is  such  a  race  that  wishes 
to  govern  the  world.  "  Ah,  the  evil 
of  it  I  "  as  my  neighbors  of  the  pas- 
sage would  say. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DREAMS. 

AS  it  ever  happened  to  you 
to  start  out  from  home  with 
light  .step  and  buoyant 
heart,  and  after  a  two-hours 
walk  in  the  streets  of  Paris  to  return 
depressed  and  anxious,  with  a  sudden 
and  unaccountable  sadness  ?  On  such 
an  occasion  you  say  to  yourself  : 
"  What  ails  me  ?  what  is  the  matter  ?  '' 
but  you  find  nothing,  search  as  you 
may.  Your  walk  has  been  pleas- 
ant, the  sidewalks  dry,  the  sun 
warm;  and  yet  you  experience  such 
a  painful  anxiety,  that  weighs  upon 

61 


6'2         IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PAKIS. 


you  like  the  impress  of  a  newly-felt 
sorrow. 

It  is  because  in  big  Paris  the  crowd 
feels  itself  free  and  unobserved,  so 
that  one  cannot  walk  a  single  step 
without  encountering  some  fearful 
distress  which,  in  coming  in  contact 
with,  leaves  its  mark  upon  one.  I  do 
not  speak  solely  of  familiar  mis- 
fortunes, the  troubles  of  our  friends, 
or  the  cares  of  people  indifferent  to 
us,  to  which  we  lend  but  a  reluctant 
ear,  but  which  nevertheless  grieve  us 
in  spite  of  ourselves.  I  speak  of 
afflictions,  total  strangers  to  us,  of 
which  we  get  but  a  glimpse,  here  and 
there,  for  one  moment  only  perhaps, 
in  the  midst  of  our  preoccupied  walks 
and  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  the 
streets.  They  are  either  fragments 
of  dialogues  jerked  out  by  passing 
carriages,  deaf  and  blind  preoccupa- 


DREAMS.  63 


tions  speaking  to  themselves  and 
aloud,  tired  shoulders,  wild  gestures, 
feverish  eyes,  pallid  faces  swelled 
with  tears,  recent  mournings  clothed 
in  black.  And  then,  other  slight 
details,  scarcely  noticeable  !  A 
frayed  collar,  brushed,  oh  how  often  ! 
a  velvet  ribbon  at  the  neck  of  a  poor 
hunchback  girl  and  cruelly  and  care- 
lessly tied  right  between  her  deform- 
ed shoulders.  All  the  visions  of  un- 
known misfortunes,  passing  quickly, 
which  you  forget  almost  immediately. 
But  you  have  felt  the  swift  touch  of 
their  sadness,  your  clothes  have  re- 
ceived the  imprint  of  the  misery  they 
drag  after  themselves  ;  and  at  the  end 
of  the  day,  you  feel  that  everything 
emotional  your  heart  contains  has  been 
unconsciously  touched,  for  you  have 
been  caught  either  at  a  street-corner 
or  on  some  threshold  by  the  invisible 


64        IX  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  HIS. 

thread  \vliich  connects  all  misfortunes 
and  sets  them  in  motion  at  the  least 
contact. 

I  was  thinking  of  that  the  other 
morning-  (for  it  is  especially  in  the 
morning-  that  Paris  shows  its  misery), 
Avatehing  a  poor  devil  walking  in 
front  of  me.  His  ill-fitting,  shrunken 
trousers  and  thin  overcoat  seemed  to 
exaggerate  his  gestures;  while  his 
big  strides  keeping  pace  with  his 
big  ideas,  were  all  the  more  grotesque. 
Bent  in  two,  his  limbs  crooked  like 
those  of  an  old  tree  during  a  heavy 
storm,  the  man  was  walking  rapidly. 
Now  and  then  his  hand  would  dive 
into  one  of  his  coat-pockets  and 
would  take  out  a  half-cent  roll  he 
was  munching  furtively,  as  if  ashamed 
to  be  seen  eating  in  the  street. 

Bricklayers  and  other  working 
people  generally  give  me  an  appetite 


DREAMS.  65 

when  I  see  them,  seated  on  the  side- 
walk, bite  into  their  scant  though 
fresh  cruse.  The  office-boys  also  make 
me  envious,  running  from  the  bakery 
to  their  offices,  with  a  pen  behind 
their  ears,  their  mouths  full,  and  re- 
joicing in  their  open-air  meal. 

But  here  one  could  feel  the  shame 
of  real  hunger;  and  it  was  such  a 
pity  to  watch  the  poor  creature,  dar- 
ing to  eat  his  bread  by  stealth  and 
only  a  few  crumbs  at  a  time. 

JL  had  been  following  him  for  a 
good  while,  when  suddenly,  as  it 
often  happens  in  those  uncertain 
lives,  he  seemed  to  change  his  mind 
with  his  direction,  and,  turning  about, 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  me. 

"  Ha  !  here  you  are !     It  is  you." 

By  chance  I  knew  him  a  little.  He 
was  one  of  those  business  pro- 
moters of  which  there  are  so  many 
5 


66         IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


in  Paris,  inventors,  founders  of 
impossible  dailies,  etc.,  about  whom, 
for  some  time  past,  there  has  been 
much  spoken,  and  written,  and  who, 
for  three  months  previously,  had 
disappeared  entirely  from  view.  A 
few  days  after  he  had  taken  himself 
off,  nobody  spoke  of  him  or  gave 
him  a  thought.  Seeing  me,  he  be- 
came confused,  and  so  as  to  cut  short 
all  questions,  and  probably  also  to 
avert  my  attention  from  the  sordid 
aspect  of  his  clothes,  as  well  as  from 
the  roll  he  was  eating,  he  began  to 
speak  in  a  rapid  and  mock-joyous 
strain.  .  .  .  Business  was  getting 
along  well,  really  splendidly  now. 
...  It  was  only  for  a  few  days  he 
had  been  embarrassed.  .  .  .  But  now, 
he  had  got  hold  of  a  magnificent 
thing.  .  .  .  A  big  industrial  illus- 
trated paper.  ...  A  great  deal  of 


DUE  A  MS.  67 

money  in  it  ...  famous  advertising 
contracts  !  .  .  .  And  his  face  was 
full  of  animation  as  he  spoke.  He 
seemed  to  have  grown  taller.  Little 
by  little  he  assumed  the  air  of  a 
patron  towards  me,  as  if  .already  in 
his  editorial  office,  and  he  went  even 
so  far  as  to  ask  me  for  contributions : 
"  And  you  know,  it  is  such  a  sure 
thing,"  he  added,  with  a  triumphal 
air.  "  I  am  beginning  with  three 
hundred  thousand  francs  Girardin 
promised  me  !  "  *-!•*  , 

Girardin  ! 

It  is  always  that  name  that  comes 
first  to  those  visionaries.  When  it 
is  pronounced  in  my  hearing  it  is  as 
if  I  saw  new  cities,  big  unfinished 
buildings,  freshly  printed  journals 
with  long  lists  of  stockholders  and 
directors.  How  often  have  I  heard 
them  say,  speaking  of  impossible 


68        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


schemes  :  "  We  must  speak  to  Gi- 
rardin about  this."  And  to  liim  also, 
the  poor  creature,  this  idea  of  speaking 
to  Girardin  about  it  had  come.  All 
night  long-,  probably,  he  had  prepared 
his  plans,  made  his  estimates,  then  he 
had  gone  out,  and  thinking  it  over 
while  eating  his  bread,  the  whole 
thing  had  become  so  beautiful,  that 
when  we  met  it  appeared  impossible 
to  him  that  Girardin  could  refuse  "the 
three  hundred  thousand  frahcs." 
In  saying  that  the  money  had  been 
promised  him,  the  unfortunate  man 
was  not  lying;  he  was  but  con  tinning 
his  idle  dream. 

While  talking,  we  were  pushed 
along  by  the  crowd.  It  was  on  the 
sidewalk  of  one  of  the  busy  streets 
that  run  from  the  Exchange  to  the 
Bank  of  France,  full  of  absent- 
minded  people  busy  with  their  affairs  ; 


DREAMS.  09 


anxious  shopkeepers  hurrying  to  pay 
their  notes,  small  brokers  with  ill- 
looking  faces,  whispering  figures  in 
each  other's  ear  in  passing.  And  to 
hear  his  beautiful  plans  in  the  midst 
of  this  crowd,  in  this  place  of  specu- 
lators, where  one  feels  the  haste  and 
fever  of  chance-games,  it  gave  me 
the  shivers,  as  if  he  had  told  me  the 
story  of  a  shipwreck  out  on  the  open 
sea.  I  could  really  see  before  me  all 
the  man  was  telling  me — see  his  ca- 
tastrophes upon  other  faces,  and  his 
radiant  hopes  in  others'  wild  looks. 
He  left  me  as  abruptly  as  he  had 
accosted  me,  thrown  once  more  into 
the  whirl  and  folly  of  dreams,  of  lies, 
which  those  people  term  with  such 
serious  faces  "  business." 

Five  minutes  later,  I  had  forgotten 
him.  But,  in  the  evening,  when  I 
reached  home,  as  I  was  shaking  off 


70        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PAH  IS. 


with  its  misery  the  street's  dust,  there 
rose  hefore  me  a  pale,  painfully 
pinched  face,  with  a  small  piece  of 
bread  in  his  hand,  and  I  still  could 
see  his  gesture  when  he  emphasized 
those  pompous  words :  "  With  the 
three  hundred  thousand  francs  Girar- 
din  promised  me  !  " 


CHAPTER   V. 


VOYAGE    CIRCFLA1KE. 


T  is  eight  days  since  Lucien 
Benird  and  Hortense  Lari- 
viere  were  married.  Ma- 
dame veuve  Lariviere,  the 
mother,  has  for  thirty  years  past  kept 
a  toy-shop  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chaus- 
see-d'Antin. 

She  is  a  stiff,  sharp  woman,  with  an 
overbearing  temper,  and  not  having 
been  able  to  refuse  her  daughter  to 
Lucien,  the  only  son  of  a  hardware- 
man  of  the  quarter,  she  intends  keep- 
ing a  close  watch  over  the  young 
couple.  Although  by  the  contract 

71 


7.V  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


she  has  relinquished  the  toy-shop  to 
Hortense,  reserving  to  herself  a  room 
only  in  the  apartment,  she  still,  in 
fact,  manages  the  house,  under  pre- 
tence of  showing  the  children  the 
details  of  the  business. 

We  ara  in  August,  the  heat  is  in- 
tense and  transactions  are  very  dull. 
Madame  Larivicre  is,  of  course,  more 
sour  than  ever.  She  will  not  allow 
Lucien  to  forget  himself  even  a  mo- 
ment when  beside  Hortense.  Did 
she  not  find  them  one  morning  kiss- 
ing each  other  in  the  shop !  A 
proper  thing  to  be  sure,  and  likely  to 
bring  customers  to  the  place.  She 
had  never  allowed  M.  Lariviere  to 
touch  her  so  much  as  with  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  during  business-  hours. 
He,  it  i.s  true,  never  dreamt  of  such  a 
thing.  And  that  is  how  they  had 
built  up  a  business. 


VOYAGE  CIRCULA1KK.  73 

Lucien,  not  daring  as  yet  to  revolt, 
sends  kisses  to  his  wife  when  his  step- 
mother's back  is  turned.  One  day, 
however,  he  plucked  up  courage 
enough  to  remind  her  that  the 
families,  previous  to  the  wedding, 
had  promised  them  a  honey-moon 
trip.  At  this  Madame  Lariviere 
puckered  her  thin  lips. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  take  an  after- 
noon walk  in  the  Bois  de  Vincennes.'' 

The  newly-married  pair  looked  at 
each  other  dumfounded. 

Hortense  now  begins  to  lind  her 
mother  realty  ridiculous.  Even  at 
night  she  can ,  scarce  be  left  alone 
with  her  husband.  At  the  least 
noise,  up  comes  Madame  Lariviere 
in  her  bare  feet,  who  knocks  at  the 
door  to  ask  if  they  are  not  ill.  And 
when  they  answer  that  they  enjoy 
the  best  of  health,  she  exclaims  : 


74         7-V  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


"  You  had  better  go  to  sleep  then. 
.  .  .  I'll  catch  you  again  napping  to- 
morrow behind  the  counter." 

It  is  past  endurance. 

Lucien  instances  all  the  shop- 
keepers in  the  quarter  who  take  short 
trips,  while  relations  or  trusty  assist- 
ants are  left  behind  to  mind  the  shop. 
There  is  the  dealer  in  gloves  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  Lafayette  who  is  at 
Dieppe,  the  cutler  of  the  Rue  Saint- 
Nicolas  who  has  just  left  for  Luchon, 
the  jeweler  near  the  Boulevard  who 
lias  taken  his  wife  to  Switzerland. 
Nowadays  anyone  who  is  anything 
allows  himself  a  month's  holiday. 

"  "Tis  the  end  of  all  business,  mon- 
sieur, do  you  hear  ?  ''  exclaims  Ma- 
dame Larivie"re.  "  In  the  time  of  M. 
Larivie'pe,  we  went  once  a  year,  on 
Easter  Monday,  to  the  Bois  de  Vin- 
cennes,  and  we  were  none  the  worse 


VOYAGE  CIRCULAIRE.  75 


off  for  it !  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ? 
You  will  be  the  ruin  of  the  house 
with  tastes  for  voyaging  like  this  ! 
Yes,  the  house  is  ruined." 

"  But  it  was  well  understood  we 
should  have  a  trip  somewhere,"  put 
in  Hortense.  ';  Remember,  mamma, 
you  said  so." 

"  Perhaps  I  did,  but  that  was  be- 
fore the  wedding.  .  .  .  One  is  apt  to 
say  all  sorts  of  nonsense  before  the 
wedding.  What?  Come,  now,  let 
us  be  serious." 

Lucien  walks  out  to  avoid  a 
quarrel.  He  harbors  a  ferocious  in- 
clination to  throttle  his  step-mother. 
When  he  returns,  however,  after  two 
hours'  absence,  he  is  quite  another 
man,  speaks  in  a  soft  voice  to  Ma- 
dame Lariviere  and  has  a  queer  smile 
at  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

In  the  evening,  he  asks  his  wife  : 


76        I  A'  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


"  Have  you  ever  been  in  Nor- 
mandy? " 

"Of  course  you  know  I. haven't," 
says  Hortense.  "  I  have  never  been 
anywhere  except  to  the  Bois  de  Vin- 
cennes." 

The  following  day,  a  thunderbolt 
burst  in  the  toy-shop.  Lucien's 
father,  pere  Be"rard,  as  he  is  called  in 
the  quarter,  where  he  is  known  for  a 
bon-vivant  with  a  sharp-eye  to  busi- 
ness, calls  round  and  invites  himself 
to  breakfast.  When  coffee  comes  on 
the  table,  lie  exclaims : 

"I've  brought  our  children  a  pres- 
ent," and  triumphantly  produces  two 
railway  tickets. 

"  What's  that?''  inquires  the  step- 
mother in  a  husky  voice. 

'•  Two  first-class  places  for  a  circular 
tour  in  Normandy.  .  .  Well,  my  little 
ones,  what  do  you  say  to  that  ?  A 


VO  YA  GE  CIRCULA1RE.  77 


whole  month  of  fresh  air !  You'll 
come  back  fresh  as  roses." 

Madame  Lariviere  is  astounded. 
She  has  a  mind  to  protest,  but  does 
not  care  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  pere 
BeVard,  who  has  always  the  last  word. 
But  when  she  hears  the  hardwareman 
speak  of  taking  the  travellers  at  once 
to  the  station,  her  amazement  exceeds 
all  bounds.  He  won't  loosen  his 
grip  of  them  till  he  sees  both  off  in 
the  train. 

"Very  well,"  she  mutters  with  in- 
ward rage,  u  take  my  daughter  away 
from  me.  So  much  the  better;  they 
won't  be  kissing  each  other  in  the 
shop  at  least,  and  I  can  look  after 
the  honor  of  the  house." 

At  last  the  married  couple  reach 
the  Saint-Lazare station,  accompanied 
by  their  step-father,  who  has  barely 
o-iven  them  time  to  throw  some  linen 


78        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


and  clothing  iiito  a  trunk.  He  be- 
stows sonorous  kisses  on  their  cheeks, 
advises  them  to  see  everything,  and 
tell  him  all  about  it  when  they  come 
back.  'Twill  amuse  him. 

On  the  landing  Avliere  the  train 
takes  its  departure,  Lucien  and  Hor- 
tense  hurry  along  in  quest  of  an 
empty  carriage.  They  have  the  good 
luck  to  iincl  one ;  they  jump  into  it 
and  are  just  preparing  for  a  tete-a- 
tete,  when  to  their  mortification  a 
spectacled  gentleman  gets  into  the 
same  compartment,  who,  as  soon  as 
seated,  looks  at  them  severely.  The 
train  starts  ;  Hortense  with  a  heavy 
heart  turns  her  head  and  affects  to 
scan  the  landscape  ;  but  tears  well  up 
into  her  eyes  so  that  she  cannot 
see  even  the  trees  outside.  Lucien 
tries  to  hit  on  some  ingenious  plan 
where-by  to  get  rid  of  the  old  gentle- 


VOYAGE  CIHCULAIRE.  79 


man,  but  his  expedients  are  too  high- 
handed. 

A  moment  lie  hopes  their  follow- 
traveller  will  get  down  at  Melun  or 
Verdun,  but  he  soon  finds  out  his 
mistake;  the  gentleman  is  bound  all 
the  way  to  Havre.  Lucien  exasper- 
ated decides  to  take  his  wife's  hand 
in  his  ;  they  are  married  after  all,  and 
may  openly  avow  their  fondness. 
But  the  old  gentleman's  brow  lowers 
more  and  more;  it  is  evident  he  dis- 
approves altogether  any  such  out- 
ward mark  of  affection  ;  so  the  young 
woman,  blushing,  withdrawn  her 
hand.  The  rest  of  the  journey  is 
got  through t  with  constraint  and  in 
silence. 

Happily  they  are  now  at  Rouen. 

Lucien  bought  a  guide-book  on 
leaving  Paris.  They  alight  at  an 
hotel  which  is  recommended,  and 


80        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


become  a  prey  to  the  waiters.  At 
the  table  d'hote  they  scarce  dare  ex- 
change a  word  before  the  crowd  of 
people  staring  at  them.  So  they 
retire  early  to  rest ;  but  the  partition 
walls  are  so  thin,  that  the  neighbors 
to  left  and  right  cannot  budge  with- 
out their  being  made  aware  of  it. 
They  no  longer  dare  to  move  or  even 
cough  in  their  beds. 

"  Let  us  go  see  the  town,"  says 
Lucien  on  rising  the  next  morning, 
"  and  start  off  quick  for  Havre." 

They  are  on  foot  all  day,  visit  the 
cathedral,  where  they  are  shown  the 
Tonr-de-Beurre,  a  tower  built  from 
the  proceeds  of  taxes  imposed  by  the 
clergy  on  the  butter  of  the  country  ; 
go  to  the  old  palace  of  the  Dukes  of 
Normandy,  enter  the  ancient  churches 
now  used  as  corn-lofts,  see  the  Place 
Jeanne-d'Arc,  the  Museum,  even  the 


VOYAGE  CIRCULAIRE.  81 

Monumental  Cemetery.  They  seem 
to  be  accomplishing  a  duty,  nor  do 
they  neglect  to  look  at  every  historic 
house.  Hortense  is  especially  bored 
to  death,  and  gets  so  tired  that  she 
falls  asleep  in  the  train  the  next 
day. 

On  reaching  Havre,  a  fresh  an- 
noyance greets  them.  At  the  hotel 
where  they  get  down,  the  beds  are  so 
narrow  that  they  must  needs  take  a 
room  with  double  bedsteads.  Hor- 
tense feels  this  almost  as  an  insult, 
and  sheds  tears.  Lucien  consoles  her 
as  best  he  can,  assuring  her  that  they 
shall  stay  at  Havre  no  longer  than  is 
just  necessary  to  see  the  town.  And 
their  wild  walks  recommence. 

Then  they  quit  Havre,  and  stop 
for  a  few  days  at  every  important 
town  set  down  in  their  itinerary. 

They  visit   Honfleur,  Pont-1'Eveque, 
6 


8'2        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PAULS. 


Caen,  Bayeux,  Cherbourg  ;  their 
heads  get  crammed  with  such  a 
rigmarole  of  streets  and  monuments 
and  churches  that  they  confuse  the 
whole,  and  grdw  dizzy  with  the  rapid 
succession  of  a  set  of  horizons  devoid 
of  all  interest  to  them. 

They  no  longer  look  at  anything, 
keeping  the  tenor  of  their  way,  strictly 
as  it  were  a  t;tsk  they  know  not  how 
to  get  rid  of;  Since  they  have  set 
out,  they  nm^t  needs  somehow  find 
their  w<iy  back.  One  evening,  at 
Cherbourg,  Lucien  let  fall  this  omi- 
nous expression  of  his  views:  u  I 
think  T  like  your  mother's  place 
better."' 

The  next  day  they  start  for  Gran- 
ville.  Lucten  remains  sombre  and 
casts  wild  eyes  over  the  country, 
where  fields  on  each  side  the  carriage 
expand  to  view  like  a  fan.  Sud- 


VOYAGE  CIRCULAJRE.  83 


denly.  as  the  train  comes  to  a  .stop  at 
a  small  station,  the  name  of  which 
does  not  reach  their  ear,  but  where  a 
lovely  corner  of  verdure  is  seen  among 
the  trees,  Lucien  cries  out :  '•  Get 
down,  my  dear,  get  down  quick  ! '' 

"  But  this  is  no  station  marked  on 
the  guide-book,*'  expostulates  Hor- 
tense. 

"  The  guide-book,  siiy  you  ?  Wait 
a  bit,  I'll  show  you  what  we'll  do 
with  the  guide-book!  Come,  quick, 
get  down." 

••  What  about  the  luggage  ?  " 
u  A  fillip  for  the  luggage  ! '' 
And  Hortense   did   get   down,  the 
train  started  and  left  them  both  in 
the    lovely    corner    of    verdure.     On 
leaving  the   station,  they  were  in  the 
open  country.     Not  a  sound,     Birds 
Avere  singing  in   the   trees ;    a   clear 
stream  flowed   at   the   bottom  of  the 


84         7.V  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  HIS. 


vale.  Lucien's  first  care  was  to  fling 
the  guide-book  into  the  middle  of  a 
pool  of  water  as  they  went  by.  At 
last,  it  is  over ;  they  are  free. 

Three  hundred,  steps  off  stands  a 
secluded  auberge  or  country-inn, 
where  the  housewife  gives  them  H 
large  room  as  cheerful  to  look  at  as 
sunshine  in  spring.  The  white- 
washed walls  are  a  yard  thick.  Be- 
sides, there  is  not  a  traveller  in  the 
house,  and  the  hens  alone  look  at 
them  with  an  inquisitive  air. 

"Our  tickets  are  good  for  eight 
days  yet,"  says  Lucien.  "  We'll  spend 
the  eight  days  here/' 

What  a  delightful  week  !  They  go 
off  in  the  morning  by  untrod  paths, 
dive  into  the  depths  of  a  wood  on 
the  slope  of  a  hill,  and  there  spend 
the  livelong  day,  lost  among  the  tall 
grasses  that  hide  their  youthful  love. 


VOYAGE  CIRCULAIRE.  85 


Anon  they  follow  the  stream ; 
Hortense  runs  like  an  escaped  school- 
girl, or  pulls  off  her  bottines  and 
takes  a  footpath,  while  Lucien  pro- 
vokes her,  so  that  she  utters  little 
screams  when  he  comes  up  suddenly 
behind  and  smacks  a  kiss  on  the  back 
of  her  neck.  Their  lack  of  linen, 
and  dearth  of  everything  generally, 
is  highly  amusing  ;  they  are,  indeed, 
elated  beyond  measure  to  be  thus  left 
to  themselves  in  a  desert  where  none 
may  think  of  looking  for  them. 

Hortense  has  been  obliged  to  loan 
some  of  the  housewife's  country 
underclothing,  and  the  coarse  stuff 
scratches  her  skin  and  makes  her 
giggle.  Their  room  is  so  gay  !  They 
lock  themselves  iu  at  eight  o'clock, 
when  the  dark,  silent  country  no 
longer  tempts  them  out.  They  give 
special  directions  not  to  be  woke  up 


86        iy  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  JilS. 


loo  early.  Lucieii  at  times  goes 
downstairs  in  his  slippers  and  brings 
up  the  breakfast,  eggs  and  cutlets, 
allowing  no  one  to  enter  the  room. 
And  the  breakfast  is  exquisite  thus 
eaten  on  the  bedside  and  endless 
from  the  kisses  which  outnumber 
tho  mouthfulsof  bread.  The  seventh 
day  they  are  surprised  and  desolate 
to  find  that  they  have  lived  through 
the  week  so  rapidly.  And  so  they 
take  their  departure  as  they  came, 
without  even  wishing  to  be  told  the 
name  of  the  country  where  they  have 
loved. 

Now  at  least  they  have  had  a 
quarter  of  their  honeymoon.  Not 
until  they  reach  Paris  do  they  come 
across  their  luggage.  When,  how- 
ever, pere  BeVard  questions  them  as 
to  their  trip,  they  get  mixed  up. 
They  saw  the  sea  at  Caen,  and  locate 


VOYAGE  CIKCULAIHE.  87 

the  Tour-de-Beurre  at  Havre.  "The 
deuce  ! "  exclaims  the  hardwareman  ; 
"but  you  don't  say  a  word  about 
Cherbourg.  .  .  What  of  the  Arsenal  ?" 

"  Oh !  a  wee  bit  of  an  arsenal," 
quietly  responds  Lucien  :  "  it  lacks 
trees." 

At  which  Madame  Larividre,  still 
sulky,  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and 
mutters:  "'Tis  worth  one's  while  to 
go  voyaging !  why  they  don't  even 
know  what  monuments  they've  seen. 
.  .  .  Come,  Hortense,  enough  of  this : 
go  to  the  counter,  please." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


IN    THE     STUDIO. 
I. 


OMEN     certainly    are    a 
horrid  invention  ! 

'•  How  I  wish  that  a 
Black  Plague  or  a  second 
Deluge  would  carry  you  all  off! 
What  an  abode  of  peace,  what  an 
oasis  this  world  would  then  be  !  " 

This  chivalrous  amiable  sentiment 
is  uttered  by  my  cousin,  a  fine  young 
man  of  five-and-twent}*,  about  six- 
foot-two  in  height,  and  with  an  eye- 
glass always  stuck  in  his  eye,  which 

seems  to  expand  when  lie  gives  vent 
88 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  89 


to  ferocious  invectives  against  my 
sex.  The  above  philippic  is  provoked 
by  my  determination  to  go  and  spend 
a  few  months  in  Paris  in  order  to 
study  painting  at  Madame  Latour's 
atelier.  I  had  been  meditating  some 
time  upon  this  move,  when  a  letter 
received  that  morning  from  my  friend 
Olga  Soultikoff,  a  young  Russian, 
then  in  Paris,  chiefly  for  painting- 
purposes,  decided  me.  This  is  the 
letter,  which  unfortunately,  I  had 
read  to  my  cousin  : 

4i  Chez  Madame  Dupont. 
"  Quai  des  Grands  Augustine,  Paris. 

"  MY  DEAR  LOUISA, — You  must 
keep  the  promise  you  made  me  to 
come  and  spend  some  time  in 

'  Ce  cher  pays  de  France, 
Berceau  de  ton  enfance.' 

Come  at  once,  to  brightness  and  sun- 


90         /Ar  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


shine.  How  can  you  remain  so  long 
in  dreary,  dirty,  dismal,  damp,  de- 
pressing London?  \vherethesun  only 
shines  through  a  thick  yellow  flannel 
dressing-gown,  as  if  that  luminary 
suffered  from  a  cold  in  his  head  and 
gets  up  late,  Avell  muffled  in  blan- 
kets. 

"•  The  London  climate  has  upon  me 
the  effect  of  a  pall,  and  the  dismal 
gutndenr,  contrasted  with  the  hideous 
poverty,  makes  me  shudder.  There 
is  no  light  ness,  no  abandon,  no  grace  ; 
nobody  seems  to  care  for  anybody 
else,  and  everybody  tries  to  outshine 
his  neighbor.  Still  there  is  much 
goodness  in  old  England,  roast  beef, 
porter,  and  plum-pudding  are  the 
emblems  of  Great  Britain  ;  solid, 
heavy,  respectable,  wholesome.  Per- 
haps champagne  may  be  typical  of 
France  :  light,  airy,  intoxicating  ;  but 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  91 


my  artistic  temperament  prefers  this 
to  the  respectable  heaviness  of  Eng- 
land. 

'•  However,  I  must  not  speak  too 
harshly  about  that  might}'-  country, 
as  I  have  only  spent  a  few  months 
there.  Italy  and  France  are  the 
Promised  Lands  of  the  artist  nature. 
This  is  a  delightful  pension,  not 
far  from  the  Louvre — that  sanctuary 
consecrated  to  the  chefs-d'oeuvre  of 
the  great  old  masters  !  Madame 
Dupont  is  a  nice  little  woman  ;  never 
interferes  with  anybody,  never  asks 
indiscreet  questions ;  enfin,  this  is 
Liberty  Hall.  There  is  a  live  Genius 
flourishing  here,  or  rather,  like  most 
geniuses,  on  the  brink  of  ruin.  He 
wears  his  hair  long,  dresses  very 
shabbily,  has  holes  in  his  wide-awake 
— for  the  sake  of  ventilation,  he 
declares;  he  is  stuffed  with  queer, 


9'J         I.V  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


strong,  artistic  ideas,  and  lie  and  I 
are  great  friends. 

"  There  are  about  forty  boarders, 
most  of  them  odd,  but  come  and 
judge  for  yourself.  I  go  to  Madame 
Latour's  studio;  she  is  a  great  artist, 
coloring  gorgeous,  worthy  of  Rubens 
or  Correggio  ;  she  is  also  a  musician 
and  a  mathematician,  is  origin-ale 
and  eccentric,  and  is  separated  from 
her  husband,  simply  because  Monsieur 
Latour  bored  her  and  was  always 
prowling  about  her  studio ;  so  she 
told  him  that  her  apartment  was 
too  small  and  he  had  better  go 
off. 

"  The  meek  husband  obeyed,  and  he 
is  now  in  Belgium,  quite  happy,  for 
he  fears  his  artist  wife.  They  had 
one  child,  but  Madame  Latour  one 
day,  in  a  fit  of  absence  of  mind,  sat 
upon  her  baby,  and.  as  she  is  a  very 


*   THE  STUDIO.  93 


stout  woman,  the  baby  never  recovered 
being  sat  upon,  and  died  a  few  days 
after.  She  did  not  feel  the  loss  much, 
and  now  lives  but  for  art  ;  her 
enthusiasm,  her  love,  are  concentrated 
in  that.  In  her  early  youth  she 
loved  passionately,  was  deceived,  and 
so  she  threw  her  mind,  her  soul,  her 
very  body,  into  her  painting.  If  I 
were  a  man,  I  should  be  devoted  to 
such  a  woman. 

"  She  has  so  much  soul,  so  much 
power ;  her  great  black  eyes  shine 
like  seas  of  light,  with  that  sacred 
fire  which  seems  to  consume  her. 
Such  women  are  rare  because  genius 
is  rare.  Madame  Latour,  though  a 
genius,  is  fond  of  the  pomps  and 
vanities  of  this  wicked  world  ;  she 
intends  giving  a  grand  fancy  ball  in 
six  weeks  from  this,  and  I  want  you 
particularly  to  be  there.  Write  at 


94        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


once  to  let  me  know  what  day  I  am 
to  expect  you,  and  do  not  be  per- 
suaded into  not  coming  by  that  cousin 
of  yours.  Is  he  still  a  woman-hater  ? 
Aufond,  I  think  he  loves  us  all  too 
much,  and  that  to  conceal  his  tender 
heart  he  puts  on  an  armor  of  cyni- 
cism and  indifference. 

"  Your  affectionate  friend, 

"OLGA  SOULTIKOFF. 

"P.S.— Tell  your  cousin  that  I 
heard  that  he  is  already  much  in 
love.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  when 
he  is  married  he  will  think  better  of 
all  Avomen,  and  will  espouse  our 
cause,  stand  up  for  and  discuss  our 
right  and  our  wrongs,  perhaps  vote 
for  our  having  the  franchise." 

My  cousin  Horace  scowls  atro- 
ciously over  this  post  tscriptum. 


/>'  THE  STUDIO.  95 


"  Fall  in  love  indeed  !  No  one  will 
ever  find  me  suffering  from  that  com- 
plaint." 

"  But  you  are  certain  to  be  in  that 
condition  some  day  or  other,  and  the 
attack  will  be  bad ;  for  love  is  like 
the  measles  :  if  you  get  it  early  in 
life  you  recover  easily,  but  once  on 
the  shady  side  of  thirty  you  will 
suffer  terribly." 

"  There  might  have  been  some  dan- 
ger for  me  if  I  had  lived  a  century  ago, 
when  there  were  a  few  charming 
woman  on  the  earth — quiet,  innocent 
beings,  satisfied  with  the  sphere  of 
home  duties  ;  but  now  they  are  merely 
amphibious  creatures  struggling  to 
the  front,  wanting  to  take  our  place, 
to  govern  the  world,  to  vote,  to  be- 
come doctors,  clergymen — I  hate  them 
all  ! 

"  There  is  an  open  antagonism  be- 


96         IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


tween  the  sexes,  an  uncivil  war.  And 
you,  instead  of  keeping  in  your  orbit, 
which  means  happiness,  want  to  join 
that  horrid  faction  of  strong-minded 
females — a  third  sex,  a  social  excres- 
cence. Do  not  be  a  blooming  idiot. 
Remain  at  home  ;  you  are  more  likely 
to  marry  than  if  you  scamper  about  the 
Continent  and  become  an  artist.  Men 
do  not  like  independent  women  ;  we 
do  not  want  to  be  ruled  by  our  wives. 
Women  ought  to  have  the  qualities 
which  are  generally  wanting  in  men  ; 
to  complete  us,  as  it  were." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  getting  afraid  of  us. 
You  lords  of  the  creation,  you  do  not 
like  to  look  up  to,  but  down  upon  us  ; 
but  surely,  Horace,  you  could  not 
respect  me  if  I  remained  at  home  for- 
ever, tatting  and  tatting,  with  a  kind 
of  label  all  over  me,  '  Waiting  to  be 
married.  Fragile.'  1  know  a  woman 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  97 


who  hates  her  sex  ;  her  advice  is, 
matrimony,  coute  que  codte." 

"  Burn  them  alive,"  growls  Horace, 
his  eyeglass  getting  to  look  wicked 
and  large,  "  and  I  think  that  I  should 
begin  with  Mademoiselle  Olga. 

"  She  is  a  dangerous  young  person, 
very  exaltee,  enthusiastic,  wild — an 
undetected  young  lunatic  ;  but  I  am 
sorry,  though,  for  her  ;  she  is  young, 
alone,  and  extremely  pretty,"  adds  my 
cousin,  relenting,  and  the  eyeglass 
slips  off.  "  She  is  an  orphan  too,  poor 
girl  !  no  one  to  look  after  her.  But 
you  have  no  excuse,  so  I  advise  you 
to  remain  and  take  plenty  of  exercise, 
for  you  seem  to  me  to  be  expanding 
fearfully,  and  that  may  spoil  your 
chances  in  life." 

Now  this  is  a  stab,  a  Parthian  shot. 
The  skeleton  in  my  closet  is  the  dread 
of  growing  like  Falstaff,  or  a  more; 
7 


98        IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


recent  hero.  I  had  tried  Banting, 
but  to  no  effect.  However,  1  do  not 
betray  my  mortification,  only  shrug 
my  shoulders,  leave  the  room  in  order 
not  to  hear  any  more  unpleasant  truths, 
and  write  off  to  Olga  ;  for  if  a  thing 
has  to  be  done  let  it  be  done  quickly. 
Then  I  go  out  and  post  the  letter,  for 
I  never  believe  that  my  letters  reach 
their  destination  unless  I  drop  them 
with  my  own  hands  into  the  letter- 
box. 

*  *  *  * 

It  is  with  a  mixed  sensation  of 
pleasure  and  regret  that  later  on  I 
find  myself  at  the  station  alone  ! 

A  sense  of  loneliness  creeps  over  me, 
I  almost  wish  to  be  back  in  the  snug 
drawing-room,  listening  to  Horace's 
invectives  and  sermons.  Here  all 
is  turmoil,  life,  bustle,  glare,  glitter, 
restlessness,  noise  of  cabs,  porters 


7.V  THE  STUDIO.  99 

rushing  about  with  big  trunks,  every- 
body and  everything  hurrying  to  and 
fro.  Suddenly  I  hear  my  name 
called  out,  two  arms  are  round  my 
neck,  and  there  stands  bright,  pretty 
little  Olga,  accompanied  by  two 
gentlemen. 

"  So  delighted  to  see  you,  cMrie ! 
Welcome  to  la  belle  France  !  Let 
me  introduce  you  to  two  of  my  friends 
who  are  staying  at  the  boarding-house 
—both  Englishmen — Mr.  Morris  and 
Mr.  Blake." 

We  all  shake  hands. 

'•  Mr.  Morris  is  evidently  the 
Genius."  I  mentally  ejaculate  ;  he 
looks  helpless,  bewildered,  and  in- 
spired ;  he  wears  a  velveteen  coat 
quite  clean,  and  his  wideawake  is 
guiltless  of  holes  :  he  is  rather  hand- 
some, very  dark,  just  a  dash  of  the 
demon  about  him. 


100      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


Mr.  Blake  is  a  contrast — a  short, 
spruce,  dapper  little  figure,  dressed 
most  carefully,  quite  un  petit  maitre  ; 
he  has  a  lovely  white  flower  in  his 
buttonhole,  and  looks  as  if  he  had 
just  stepped  out  of  a  bandbox. 

I  confide  my  keys  to  him,  and  he 
politely  goes  off  and  looks  after  my 
luggage,  which  has  to  undergo  the 
process  of  being  examined. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Morris,  won't  you  go 
and  get  us  a  voiture  ?  "  says  Olga, 
in  her  sweet,  foreign  accent.  "  I  do 
wonder  if  he  will  be  able  to  do  that ; 
for  of  course  you  have  guessed  that 
he  is  the  Genius,  always  up  in  the 
heights — a  great  deal  of  power  about 
him,  but  not  much  practicality." 

But  Olga's  remarks  are  cut  short 
by  the  reappearance  of  Mr.  Blake, 
followed  by  a  porter  carrying  my 
trunk. 


THE  STUDIO.  101 


"  The  fiacre  is  waiting.  What  a 
wonder  that  it  is  not  a  hearse  !  ''  ex- 
claims Mr.  Blake,  with  a  shrug  of 
compassion.  "  I  did  not  think  that 
Morris  could  discern  one  vehicle  from 
another." 

The  trunk  is  placed  on  the  roof, 
my  innumerable  parcels  fill  up  nearly 
the  cab,  Olga  and  I  squeeze  into  a 
corner,  and  the  two  men  hid  us  good- 
evening. 

Off  we  rattle  through  the  brilliant 
streets.  It  is  a  lovely  evening  in 
May,  the  trees  are  clothed  in  delicate 
young  green,  the  stars  are  just  begin- 
ning to  shine,  the  shops  are  beautifully 
lit,  the  streets  are  crowded.  How- 
poetical  Paris  looks  from  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde  on  to  the  bridge  ! 

The  towers  of  Notre  Dame  andof  St. 
Jacques  la  Boucherie,  standing  there 
like  guardian  angels  protecting  the 


102      ^Ar  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  RIS. 


beloved  city.  The  dismal  prison  of 
the  Conciergerie,  the  ruins  of  the  Tui- 
leries,  lend  a  solemnity  to  the  scene. 
The  Seine  is  twinkling  with  many 
lights,  the  bathing-houses  are  slightly 
lit  up,  giving  it  a  weird  appearance. 
A  few  dark  barges  are  gliding  warily 
by,  like  dreary,  troubled  spirits.  The 
equestrian  statue  of  Henri  Quatre 
looks  well  in  the  evening  light — the 
gay  monarch  there  in  effigy  watching 
over  liis  dear  Paris.  At  last  the  cab 
stops. 

Olga  rings  a  bell ;  the  door  is  opened 
by  a  neat  bonne  in  a  very  white  cap 
and  apron,  holding  a  brass  candlestick. 
The  bonne  ushers  us  into  a  large  sit- 
ting-room furnished  with  crimson 
curtains,  chairs,  etc.,  gilt  clock  and 
ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece;  and 
the  floor  is  so  highly  waxed  that  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  walk  without 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  103 

slipping.  A  tiny  lady  in  black  silk 
conies  forward. 

"  This  is  my  friend,  Miss  Louisa 
Larcom,"  says  Olga  in  French. 

Madame  Dupout  makes  a  graceful 
reverence,  is  enchanted  to  see  me,  in- 
quires after  my  journey,  and  says  that 
she  will  send  me  up  du  the  in  my 
room. 

Olga  says  that  I  shall  have  tea  with 
her  in  her  own  sitting-room.  So, 
bidding  the  little  lady  good-night,  we 
go  upstairs  to  Olga's  apartment. 

"  What  a  lovely  mnctum  sanc- 
torum /"  I  exclaim  ;  and  certainly  it 
is  a  charming  room  worth  describing. 
The  furniture  is  of  bright  blue  damask 
silk,  white  lace  curtains,  and  the  fond 
of  the  carpet  is  white,  with  wreaths  of 
roses  entwined  with  blue  ribbon.  A 
bookcase  of  carved  oak  filled  with 
beautifully-bound  books. 


104      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


On  all  sides  are  statuettes  of 
Dresden  china.  A  Venus  deMiloand 
a  Venus  de'  Medici  in  bronze,  mount 
guard  on  each  side  of  the  bookcase. 
A  fine  Erard  piano  stands  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  On  a  rosewood  easel  is 
a  study  of  a  head  in  black  and  white 
just  begun.  Out  of  this  is  a  small 
bedroom  with  a  pretty  bed  and  toilette 
all  white.  Engravings  of  Ary 
Scheffer's  famous  pictures — of  "  Les 
deux  Mignons,"  "  Ste.-Monique,"  and 
"  St.-Augustin,"  decorate  the  walls, 
besides  photographs  of  nearly  all  the 
great  masterpieces  in  art. 

"  This  is  your  room,  leading  out  of 
mine,"  says  Olga  opening  a  door. 
"Of  course  yours  is  not  so  beautiful 
as  mine,  for  mine  is  furnished  out  of 
my  own  pocket,  and  yours  is  Madame 
Dupont's  taste.  Still  it  is  pretty  and 
cosy,  furnished  in  pink  perse.  You 


THE  STUDIO.  105 


have  everything  couleur  de  rose,  and 
I  am  all  in  the  blues.  Still  I  am  not 
going  to  exchange.  Now  take  off 
your  tilings,  and  let  us  make  our- 
selves comfortable.  I  love  luxury, 
ease,  comfort.*' 

So  saying,  she  takes  off  her  walking- 
dress  and  puts  on  a  delicious  gray  soft 
cashmere  dressing-gown,  puts  her  tiny 
feet  into  lovely  velvet  slippers,  and 
throws  herself  into  a  large  arm-chair, 
forces  me  down  into  another,  and 
rings  the  bell  for  tea. 

How  pretty  she  looks  now,  as  she  in- 
dolently reclines  back.  She  is  small; 
her  figure  is  round,  supple,  graceful ; 
her  skin  is  clear  and  white  ;  her  hair, 
golden  and  wavy,  is  plaited  round  her 
small  well-shaped  head;  her  eyes  are 
very  dark  and  soft,  but  there  is  often 
a  twinkle  of  mischief  in  them  ;  her 
mouth  is  lovely  and  surrounded  by 
dimples. 


100      IX  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  RIS. 


4*  What  a  luxurious  creature !  what 
an  epicure  you  are,  Olga  ! "  I  exclaim, 
halt' en  viously,  thinking  of  all  the  gifts 
and  good  things  she  had.  "  How 
thoroughly  happy  you  ought  to  be ! 
You  have  everything  you  want — 
beauty,  wealth,  talent,  liberty,  youth. 
You  have  indeed  too  much  of  the 
good  things  of  this  world,  you  spoilt 
child  of  fortune  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  ought  to  be  very  happy," 
she  slowly  answers,  with  rather  a  sad 
smile  ;  "and  it  may  seem  strange  and 
ungrateful  on  my  part  to  say  that 
I  am  not  so.  Happiness  is  within 
ourselves,  and  not  derived  entirely 
from  outward  circumstances.  At 
times  I  feel  quite  happy ;  at  others  I 
am  low  and  depressed.  I  am  lonely, 
for  I  have  no  one  belonging  to  me 
alive.  When  I  feel  very  low  I  rush 
off  to  Madame  Latour,  and  her 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  107 


influence,  the  feeling  of  her  genius, 
seems  to  put  ne\v  life  into  me;  but 
there  is  a  void  within  me.  I  do  not 
care  for  people  generally,  so  that  I 
now  live  but  for  myself." 

A  knock  at  the  door :  the  bonne 
comes  in  with  a  tray  full,  of  good 
things,  which  she  deposits  on  a  table 
close  by,  inquires  if  we  require  her 
services,  and  then  retires. 

"  But,  Olga,  you  are  sure  to  be  loved 
by  some  one  worthy  of  you  ;  you  are 
so  young — only  two-and-twenty." 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  age ;  still,  at  times 
I  feel  middle-aged,  for  I  have  had 
great  experience  of  life.  Of  course 
I  have  inspired  love,  and  have  tasted 
the  bitterness  of  it,  with  little  of  its 
sweets !  " 

"  You  amaze  me  ! "  I  exclaim. 
"  You,  so  admire-d,  so  reeherch^e,  to 
talk  like  this  ! — vow,  who  seem  such 


108      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


a  sunbeam,  such  a  butterfly,  is  it 
possible  that  you  have  cause  for 
talking  so?  The  bitterness  of  love  ! 
— you  almost  make  me  laugh.  It 
seems  so  incongruous  for  such  un  en- 
fant (Jdte  to  talk  thue." 

"Well,  then,  I  ;  hall  give  you  a 
few  details  about  my  past  life  ;  and 
then  you  will  see  if  all  is  gold  that 
glitters,  and  if  I  have  not  reason  at 
times  to  be  a  little  triste.  But  before 
I  tell  you  my  unfortunate  love  affair, 
'  let  us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry.' 
This  is  Russian  tea — a  treat  for  you." 

How  charming  she  looks,  as  she 
gracefully  pours  out  the  delicious  be- 
verage from  a  small  silver  teapot  into 
our  two  cups  !  I  cannot  imagine  how 
so  fascinating  a  girl  can  ever  have  had 
a  love  disappointment.  Her  move- 
ments, as  she  rushes  about  the  room, 
remind  me  of  those  of  a  pet  kitten-- 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  109 

soft,  purring,  graceful  ;  the  small 
head  is  well  placed  on  the  sloping- 
shoulders,  the  eyes  are  so  luminous, 
the  light  hair  looks  like  an  aureole 
of  glory,  shedding  light  around  it. 
Olga  has  a  wonderful  inner  smile — a 
smile  that  Leonardo  da  Vinci  alone 
could  have  rendered,  and  which  he 
has  so  inimitably  painted  in  that 
famous  portrait,  "  La  Joconde, "  or 
"  Mona  Lisa." 

"  We  shall  get  on  together," 
suddenly  exclaims  Olga,  while  she  is 
cutting  me  a  large  slice  of  plum  cake. 
u  I  require  a  certain  kind  of  sympathy, 
not  pity.  As  a  rule  I  hate  sympathy, 
for  though  surrounded  by  society  T 
live  in  my  own  thoughts.  I  have  such 
a  horror  of  being  bored.  Liberty  is 
my  cry — liberty  of  ideas,  of  life  ;  no 
shackles  of  any  sort.  I  am  a  Repub- 
lican at  heart,  and  the  convention- 


11U      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PAKIS. 


all  ties  of  society  and  the  lies  of  the 
world  sicken  me." 

As  she  utters  these  words  her  eyes 
flash,  her  cheeks  flush,  and  she  looks 
like  a  young  goddess  of  revolt. 

Suddenly  she  rushes  to  the  piano, 
and  sings  a  wild  Russian  air,  and 
evidently  forgetting  me,  the  tea,  and 
everything  else,  pours  her  soul  into 
her  music.  And  then,  in  a  low,  tragic 
voice,  with  an  intensity  that  appals 
me,  she  intones  the  "  Marseillaise." 
It  is  almost  terrible  to  hear  her,  her 
eyes  seem  to  see  beyond,  and,  as  she 
utters  these  words, 

"  Amour  sacre  de  la  patrie  !  " 
there  are  tears  in  her  very  voice  ;  then, 
not  to  give  further  vent  to  her 
emotion,  she  rattles  off  "  Le  Sabre  de 
mon  pere,"  Schneider's  famous  song, 
from  Offenbach's  "  Grande  Duchesse." 
I  look  at  Olga  with  astonishment. 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  Ill 


"  You  are  an  enigma,  a  sphinx,  an 
imp,  a  creature  from  another  world, 
are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  am  not.  I  belong  very 
much  to  this  earth ;  only  at  times  I 
feel  so  lonely,  so  dissatisfied  with  my- 
self, with  everybody  and  everything, 
that  I  should  like  to  get  away  from 
myself  and  my  thoughts,  to  rush  off 
to  some  wild  spot,  be  blown  about  by 
the  winds  of  heaven,  and  have  ne\v 
thoughts  and  ideas  driven  into  me. 
Why  is  there  not  a  Lethe — a  wonder- 
ful stream  where  one  could  take  a 
plunge  and  forget  what  one  wishes  to 
forget? 

"  Music  is  an  intense  resource  to  me, 
for  I  can  pour  out  my  wrongs  and 
give  way  to  my  many  moods  in  music. 
Sometimes,  when  painting,  I  take  my 
brush  and  create  a  grotesque  demon 
torturing  some  wretched  soul,  and, 


112      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PAEIS. 


you  may  laugh,  but  it  does  relieve 
me ;  or  I  tease  my  cat.  I  often  wish 
that  I  could  hire  a  slave,  that  I  might 
bully  him  when  those  dreadful  fits  of 
revolt  come  over  me.  Of  course  you 
must  be  horrified,  and  no  wonder; 
but  how  can  I  help  it,  if  I  have  a  di- 
avolina  within  me  ? — perhaps  seven 
devils,  and  they  all  kicking  inside  me. 
I  feel  the  wretches  are  there,  and 
some  days  they  are  so  powerful,  that 
if  I  did  not  take  a  ride  on  horseback, 
or  some  very  violent  exercise,  I  should 
do  something  wicked." 

'•What  an  undisciplined  young 
rebel  you  are,  Olga  !  " 

"  It  is  inherited,"  she  answers. 
"  My  mother  was  an  Italian  prima 
donna,  with  a  voice  like  Malibran.  1 
have  been  told  she  had  an  unhappy 
home  life  ;  her  step-mother  tortured 
her  by  her  despotism  ;  her  artist  nature 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  113 

could  uot  stand  the  petty  worries  of 
a  small  narrow-minded  household ; 
she  ran  away,  went  on  the  stage,  loved, 
was  deceived.  Disappointed,  she 
married  my  father,  who  was  a  Russian 
merchant,  for  his  wealth.  He  was 
(you  know  he  died  when  I  was  quite 
a  child)  tyrannical,  but  generous  ;  so 
my  parents  were  not  happy  in  their 
short  married  life. 

"  I  am  the  offspring  of  thesj&  two 
widely  different  natures :  the  warm, 
genial,  artistic,  imaginative,  rebellious 
Italian  on  one  side :  the  cruelty, 
perhaps,  from  my  father's  side.  So  I 
am  an  odd  mixture,  and  am  not  en- 
tirely accountable  for  my  moods.  I 
would  gladly  be  different — glad  to 
have  no  aspiration,  no  dreams  of 
happiness,  no  longing  for  ideal  love, 
no  wish  for  something  beyond — to  be 
quiet,  unemotional,  unimaginative, 


114      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


and  satisfied  with  that  state  of  life  to 
which  I  have  been  called.  But  I  am 
talking  of  nothing  but  my  horrid  self. 
The  fact  is,  it  does  me  good  to  give 
vent  to  my  inner  feelings :  it  is  a 
great  sign  of  friendship,  my  boring 
you  thus.'' 

kt  Yon  are  not  boring  me  ;  on  the 
contrary,  dear  Olga,  I  am  deeply  in- 
terested, and  sympathize  with  your 
nature  and  understand  it.  You  are 
capable  of  feeling  great  unhappiness 
and  great  happiness  ;  but  you  must 
try  and  discipline  yourself,  and  not 
let  yourself  be  run  away  with.  Put 
a  bridle  on  your  wild  feelings." 

kt  Yes,  you  are  very  wise,  Miss 
Minerva;  and  1  am  an  ungrateful 
wretch.  Some  days,  when  the  sun  is 
bright,  I  feel  so  happy  that  I  should 
like  to  live  on  forever  and  do  some 
good ;  but  to-day  I  am  ayaa$e,  mis- 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  115 


chievous.  I  should  like  to  scratch 
some  one." 

"  I  shall  run  away,"  I  exclaim  laugh- 
ing. "  But  now  be  sensible,  Olga, 
and  tell  me  all  about  these  little  love- 
affairs  that  seem  in  a  measure  to  have 
altered  your  nature  ;  for  when  I 
knew  you  five  years  ago  you  had  no 
bitterness,  no  cynicism."' 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  had  better  con- 
fide this  tale  of  woe,  though,  as  a  rule, 
I  hate  talking  about  myself." 

So,  leaving  the  piano,  she  threw 
herself  upon  the  soft  riig,  and  placing 
her  pretty  perfumed  head  on  my  lap, 
related  what  follows : 

"  Don't  you  remember,  four  years 
ago,  meeting  at  mamma's  apartments 
on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  a 
young  Pole,  Stanislas  Marilski  ?"' 

'•  Oh  yes,  very  well,  for  I  was  much 
struck  with  his  appearance  ;  he  was 


116      Iff  THE  MIDST  OF  P Alt  119. 


distinguS  looking,  handsome,  and 
artistic  ;  but  I  only  saw  him  that  one 
evening.  Is  he  the  hero  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  was  the  first  man  who 
inspired  a  new  feeling.  Before  I 
met  him  I  was  a  joyous,  light,  merry, 
thoughtless  girl,  inzouciante.  Suf- 
ficient for  the  day  is  the  evil  or  the 
good  thereof,  was  certainly  my  motto. 
But  Stanislas  Marilski's  advent 
changed  the  course  of  my  thoughts, 
and  I  was  no  longer  as  joyous  as  a 
bird.  T  felt  that  life  was  a  mystery  ; 
nature  was  different,  and  art  was  dif- 
ferent, from  what  they  had  been  to 
me  before.  I  felt  a  capacity  for 
greater  happiness  and  for  greater  pain. 
He  was  certainly  good-looking  ;  but 
it  was  not  his  handsome  features 
that  attracted  me,  so  much  as  the 
peculiarity  of  his  disposition  and  the 
originality  of  his  mind.  He  was  an 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  1 17 


orphan,  a  rebel,  a  revolutionist  :  he 
Ijelieved  in  nothing  that  was  past  ; 
history  was  a  lie  to  him,  he  cared  hut 
for  the  future. 

••  Melancholy,  cynical,  passionate, 
we  were  both  strongly  attracted 
towards  each  other  the  minute  we  met. 
I  met  him  for  the  first  time  at  a  bal 
at  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  I  had  been 
dancing  merrily  about  with  a  very 
insipid  polite  Frenchman.  I  was 
resting,  enjoying  thoroughly  the 
bright  scene,  the  music,  the  lights, 
the  wonderful  dresses,  the  diamonds; 
when,  looking  around,  I  was  sud- 
denly attracted  by  that  very  pale  face 
and  those  large,  dark,  melancholy 
eyes,  gazing  at  me  so  keenly. 

"  I  looked  at  him,  and  from  that 
moment  T  really  did  feel  a  different 
being ;  a  new  interest  had  come  into 
my  life.  He  got  introduced  to  my 


118      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


mother,  called  at  our  house  ;  we  had 
long  talks  together — curious  to  say, 
chiefly  on  political  topics.  But  that 
ceased.  We  used  to  meet  out  of 
doors,  and  Ir.ive  long  walks  together 
in  unfrequented  parts  of  Paris.  He 
told  me  that  he  loved  me,  but  that 
for  a  few  months  he  could  not  make 
a  regular  offer  of  marriage.  I  did 
not  mind  that ;  to  be  cared  for 
by  such  a  man  was  sufficient  happi- 
ness. And  as  my  mother,  who  was 
then  -in  extremely  delicate  health, 
•allowed  me  entire  liberty,  I  saw 
Stanislas  every  day  for  five  months. 
One  day,  calling  at  a  friend's  house, 
she  informed  me  that  several  people 
had  seen  me  walking  with  Mr.  Maril- 
ski — that  remarks  were  passed ;  so 
that  my  friend  had  made  inquiries  ; 
and  did  I  know  that  Mr.  Marilski 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  a 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  119 


Polish  young  lady? — and  she  men- 
tioned the  name. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  what  I  felt 
when  she  told  me  this  horrible  piece 
of  news.  The  room  seemed  to  whirl 
round  and  round;  the  blood  rushed 
to  my  throat  and  head.  I  tried  to 
conceal  my  emotion.  My  friend  was 
shocked  at  having  told  me  this  so 
abruptly.  To  cut  a  long,  sad  story 
short,  1  wrote  to  Stanislas,  telling 
him  what  I  had  just  heard.  I  re- 
ceived a  miserable  letter  from  him, 
confessing  that  there  was  an  engage- 
ment, but  that  he  "had  ceased  to  care 
for  the  girl,  and  only  loved  me,  beg- 
ging me  to  run  away  with  him,  and 
that  he  would  gladly  give  up  every- 
thing for  my  sake. 

"  I  was  considering  what  I  had 
better  do,  when  I  received  a  letter 
from  the  mother  of  the  girl,  saying 


120      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARTS. 

that  if  I  married  Mr.  Marilski  it 
would  certainly  cause  her  daughter's 
death,  she  was  so  desperately  attached 
to  him;  and  that  Stanislas'  late  be- 
havior  had  made  her  seriously  ill. 
Tliis  piece  of  news  decided  me.  I 
broke  off  entirely  from  him,  and  my 
poor  mother  took  me  to  Dresden  for 
change  of  air,  scene  and  people. 

"  Strange  to  say,  that  instead  of 
dreading  love,  I  longed  for  it. 

••  Life  seemed  to  me  so  stale,  dull, 
and  unprofitable,  so  uninteresting 
without  it.  I  did  everything  to  for- 
get Stanislas,  to  drive  away  his  image. 
I  did  my  best  even  to  think  ill  of 
him,  to  picture  him  in  a  ludicrous 
light.  I  really  felt  as  if  my  soul  had 
left  me,  for  my  bod}-  simply  vege- 
tated ;  but  I  resolved  to  fight  against 
my  misfortune,  and  not  allow  this  dull 
oppression  to  warp  my  existence. 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  121 


A 1  \vays  fond  of  art,  I  resolved  to  de- 
vote myself  to  painting.  I  went  to 
the  Dresden  Gallery,  that  ideal  of  a 
picture  gallery,  a  perfect  little  tem- 
ple; where  every  picture  i's  a  gem. 
It  was  at  the  Dresden  Gallery  that 
I  met  my  fate  number  two,  in  the 
shape  of  an  artist  who  was  copying 
the  same  picture  (curious  coinci- 
dence) that  I  had  begun — '  Kinder  ' 
von  C.  L.  Vogel. 

'•  My  easel  was  close  to  his,  and  from 
the  very  first  he  became  most  atten- 
tive, prepared  my  pallet,  gave  me 
valuable  hints  alxnit  tlie  mixing  of 
colors,  how  effects  were  produced — 
impossible  to  be  kinder.  He  was  a 
great  contrast  to  Stanislas,  but  there 
was  something  about  him  which  at- 
tracted me.  I  shall  repeat,  to  you  some 
of  his  remarks,  and  you  will  judge 
what  sort  of  man  number  two  was. 


1'2'2       L\  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


"  After  having  looked  at  several  of 
the  chefs-d'oeuvre  in  the  Gallery,  I 
remarked  rather  petulantly  to  him 
that  he  was  too  fond  of  analyzing 
the  different  manners  in  which  the 
pictures  were  painted;  that  he  was 
completely  absorbed  by  the  technical 
process  and  missed  the  spiritual 
idea,  the  soul,  the  genius  of  the  con- 
ception. A  picture  to  him  was  a  kind 
of  plum-pudding.  Why  not  chiefly 
admire  the  thought,  and  not  merely 
how  an  effect  is  produced  ?  " 

"'You  are  an  exaliSe  enthusiastic 
young  girl,"  he  said  to  me  after  a 
few  hours'  talk.  You  must  calm 
yourself.  Yon  have  a  dash  of  genius, 
but  you  require  a  rudder.  I  shall  be 
your  rudder.' 

u  Cool,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  ''  said  Olga, 
looking  up  at  me  with  an  arch  smile. 
He  went  on  : 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  123 


"  *  Those  high-flown  ideas  are  very 
youthful.  You  must  not  allow  your 
imagination  to  run  a\yay  with  you.' 
And,  fixing  his  cold  gray  eyes  upon 
me :  '  I  can  read  your  character  in 
your  face,  for  you  are  very  transpar- 
ent. I  can  read  the  inner  workings 
of  your  mind.  You  have  suffered, 
young  lady;  you  are  disappointed; 
you  are  not  now  in  your  normal  con- 
dition. You  have  been  taken  out  of 
your  small  orbit,  and  you  are  in  a 
feverish  state,  and  are  trying  to  fling 
yourself  into  another  sphere.  I 
know  the  sensation  well,  for  I  have 
l>een  in  that  condition.  I  have  loved 
and  lost.' 

"  His  impudence  took  me  by  storm. 
'What  right  have  you  to  form  such  a 
conclusion  ?  '  I  said  to  him. 

"  'Do  not  be  offended  with  me  ;  I 

*. 

understand  your   nature,  and   see  it 


124      IN  TUP:  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


all  in  your  face  ;  do  not  contradict 
me,  but  take  my  fatherly  advice,  for 
I  am  over  forty  and  know  life.  Fly 
from  love  ;  never  let  a  man  know 
how  much  you  care  for  him.  Devote 
yourself  to  Art ;  that  will  never 
deceive  or  disenchant  you,  and  the 
labor  you  bestow  upon  it  will  be 
recompensed  in  this  world.  You 
will  have  hours  of  real  joy  over  your 
own  creations — that  is  my  expe- 
rience. I  looked  for  love,  and  while 
under  the  fatal  spell  I  felt  intoxi- 
cated, and  like  the  sunflower  basked 
in  sunshine  ;  but  I  have  never  met 
with  a  being  that  satisfied  my  heart 
and  my  soul ;  whilst  the  beauties  of 
Nature  and  of  Art  are  unfailing 
sources  of  happiness.' 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Olga,  that 
this  man  spoke  to  you  thus,  on  so  short 
sin  acquaintance  ?  " 


7A"  THE  STUDIO.  125 


"  Yes,  exactly,"  she  replied,  slightly 
coloring,  and  tossing  back  her  wavy 
hair. 

"  What  is  his  name,  and  who  is 
he?" 

li  His  name  is  Crawford,  and  he  is 
half  Irish,  half  English  ;  a  very  clever 
artist,  musician  and  poet,  with  just  a 
dash  of  mystery  to  make  him  inter- 
esting. We  met  every  day  for  sev- 
eral months  at  the  Dresden  Gallery. 
I  felt  myself  alive  again.  Mr.  Craw- 
ford made  it  a  point  to  copy  the  same 
picture  I  copied,  and  the  hours  spent 
in  his  society  were  hours  of  hap- 
piness. At  times  he  would  recite  to 
me  ballads  of  his  own  composition, 
weird,  strange,  grotesque,  and  full 
of  fancy.  His  voice  was  deep,  strong 
and  yet  soft.  This  man  puzzled  and 
fascinated  me. 

'•  Outwardly  lie  seemed  calm,  con- 


126      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

ceited,  vain,  obstinate  ;  at  other  times 
he  was  full  of  tenderness,  flavored 
with  cynicism.  He  had  a  dramatic, 
powerful  way  of  expressing  himself, 
and  an  utter  absence  of  ideality.  We 
grew  confidential,  and  I  told  him  about 
Stanislas.  I  do  not  know  if  he  was 
actuated  by  a  feeling  of  jealousy  or 
if  he  really  wished  to  cure  me  entirely, 
but  he  turned  the  whole  affair  into 
ridicule.  '  Fancy  Mr.  Marilski  with 
a  bad  cold  in  his  head,  red  nose,  eyes 
swimming,  no  pocket-handkerchief, 
sneezing,  etc.  ;  or,  in  a  dozen  years, 
with  a  big  stomach  like  an  alderman, 
gouty,  with  a  dozen  children  !  No  ; 
analyze  the  feeling,  and  you  will  find 
that  love  is  built  on  a  very  slight 
foundation.  You  excite  an  interest  ; 
there  is  some  objection  in  the  way, 
your  imagination  is  at  work,  and  that 
object  becomes  a  dire  necessity  as  long 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  127 


as  you  cannot  possess  him  or  her  ;  but 
when  you  do  possess,illusion  vanishes, 
love  often  flies,  and  you  find  yourself 
tied  do\vn  for  life  to  a  log.'  Though 
Mr.  Crawford  talked  to  me  thus,  he 
did  everything  to  excite  my  interest 
in  himself  :  he  spoke  to  me  of  his 
plans,  his  aspirations,  his  doubts, 
fears, — and  ended  by  confessing  that 
he  loved  me. 

"Now  comes  wound  number  two. 
"  One  evening  at  an  artistic  party 
where  I  went  with  a  lady  friend, 
somebody  mentioned  Mr.  Crawford's 
name,  speaking  in  great  praise  of  his 
artistic  merit  and  general  fascination. 
Then  somebody  else  remarked,  and  I 
still  hear  the  words  as  if  they  were 
words  of  fire — 

" '  Yes,  poor  fellow,  what  a  miserable 
thing  for  him,  that  wife  of  his  being 
such  a  confirmed  drunkard  I  and 


128      IX  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


though  separated,  he  cannot  marry 
again.  There  ought  to  be  a  divorce 
in  such  cases.  Married  and  not  mar- 
ried !  What  a  sad  position  for  a  man 
still  in  the  bloom  of  his  life.' 

"  '  I  never  knew  that  Crawford  was 
a  married  man,'  said  a  fat,  elderly 
gentleman.  '  He  has  dined  several 
times  at  my  house  in  London,  and  I 
have  often  asked  him  why  he  did  not 
enter  the  blessed  state  of  matrimony  ; 
and  he  simply  said  he  could  not,  and 
I  thought  perhaps  it  was  because  his 
means  did  not  allow  him/ 

4i '  He  is  very  well  off,'  answered 
speaker  number  one.  'I  met  him 
yesterday,  and  he  told  me  that  he  felt 
restless  and  unhappy.  He  is  getting 
on  splendidly  as  an  artist,  but  1  hear 
that  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  a  pretty 
girl  who  is  studying  Art  and  copying 
at  the  Gallery  here/ 


7.V  THE  STUDIO.  129 

••  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Rush- 
ing off  to  my  m&perone,!  complained 
of  a  sick  headache  ;  once  home,  I  burst 
into  tears,  felt  the  world  again  to  be  a 
wide  desert,  and  did  not  ret  urn  to  the 
•Gallery.  My  mother  soon  after  this 
died ;  so  that  mouth  was  indeed  a 
black  epoch  in  my  life,  and  made 
lovely  Dresden  a  perfect  nightmare. 

"  A  few  days  after  my  mother's 
funeral,  when  T  was  trying  to  pack 
up  my  things  in  order  to  get  away 
from  the  now  hateful  place,  and  come 
to  Paris,  where  I  had,  at  all  events,  a 
few  friends,  I  received  a  long,  touch- 
ing letter  from  Mr.  Crawford,  telling 
me  all  about  his  unfortunate  marriage, 
his  love  and  sympathy  for  me. 

"  T  wrote  back  to  bid  him  adieu, 
and  telling  him  that  my  wish  was 
that  we  should  never  meet  or  cor- 
respond any  more.  This  is  the  end 
9 


130      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

of  my  love  stories,  so  you  see  that  I 
have  not  been  lucky  in  that  depart- 
ment." 

"  Poor  little  Olga  !  "  I  said,  taking 
her  soft  white  hand  in  mine,  "  you 
have -indeed  suffered;  but  you  are 
still  very  young,  and  will  be  more 
fortunate  another  time." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  more  love-affairs  ! 
(Test  fini.  I  have  made  a  firm  resolve 
to  work  hard  to  become  a  great  artist 
if  possible.  Adieu  to  romance,  it  is 
a  waste  of  time — 

•'  '  I  slept  and  dreamt  that  life  was  beauty  : 
I  woke,  and  found  that  life  was  duty.'  " 

We  part  for  the  night,  both  of  us 
vowing  and  declaring  that  we  should 
thiow  ourselves  heart  and  soul  into 
the  Art  career,  and  give  up  all  idea 
of  marriage.  "Yes,"  says  Olga,  "  all 
men  are  deceivers  ;  false,  vain,  con- 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  131 

ceited,  jealous,  wicked,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 
I  shall  be  a  nice,  clever,  artistic  old 
maid.  That  is  my  final  decision." 


II. 


NEXT  morning  Olga  comes  into 
my  room,  looking  so  sweet  and  fresh 
in  the  pretty  lavender  muslin,  and 
passing  her  arm  through  mine  we  go 
down  the  staircase  together. 

On  our  way  to  the  dining-room  we 
meet  several  boarders,  issuing  from 
their  respective  bedrooms.  No  need 
to  inquire  after  the  nationality  of 
these  beings.  Alas  !  Englishwomen 
cannot  be  mistaken  on  the  Continent ; 
their  want  of  taste  and  tact  in  dress  ; 
is  an  unmistakable  badge.  This 
thought  shot  across  my  brain  as  I  per- 
ceive a  large  family  preceding  us 
downstairs;  the  mother, tremendously 


13-J      IN  THE.-VIDST  OF  PARIS. 

VJC* 

stout  and  beefy -looking,  is  in  ill-fitting 
many-colored  garments  ;  with  such 
feet !  encased  inimmense  boots.  She 
wears  two  large  brooches,  evidently 
family  portraits— one  pinning  a  collar, 
the  other  doing  no  thing,  just  for  show. 
Four  pretty  .daughters  follow  her 
closely,  guiltless  of  any  attempt  at 
style.  Perhaps  this  want  of  taste  in 
dress  is  made  more  conspicuous  by 
the  presence  of  two  young  American 
girls,  elegantly  attired  in  the  very  last 
new  fashion. 

kt  Ho\v  are  you,  Mademoiselle  Soul- 
tikoff  ?  "  they  both  exclaim,  in  strong- 
nasal  accent.  •' I  guess  this  is  the 
friend  you  have  been  expecting  all 
along  ?  "  and  on  receiving  fronnOlga 
an  affirmative  nod  they  shake  hands 
cordially  with  me.  "  So  glad  to  see 
you.  Are  you  come  to  Paris  alone  ? 
I  reckon  that  you  are  one  of  our  sort; 


THE  STUDIO.  133 


you  find  your  family  an  inconven- 
ience? 

"  I  told  my  people,"  said  the  elder 
of  the  two,  "  all  very  well  to  stay 
under  the  maternal  and  paternal  wing- 
when  one  is  a  chicken,  but  once  that 
period  over  we  want  our  liberty. 
How  well  you.  have  fixed  your  hair, 
Mademoiselle  Soultikoff.  That's  the 
style,  I  guess,  that  Mr.  Morris  likes. 
Now  do  not  blush,  no  harm  having  a 
genius  for  an  admirer,  though  lie 
ought  to  fix  himself  better,  cut  his 
hair  short  ;  but  he  is  a  lovely  fellow, 
and  you  need  not  be  ashamed  of  your 
conquest ;  he  never  takes  any  notice 
of  any  one  but  of  you.  You  are  both 
kindred  spirits." 

I  could  not  help  laughing,  but 
Olga  seemed  rather  annoyed  and 
confused. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  staircase  we 


134      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


were  greeted  by  a  very  fat  bonne  in  a 
very  white  frilled  cap  ;  her  round  face 
beams  with  good  nature.  She  stands 
at  the  door  of  the  snlle  a  )nan</er,  and 
as  T  am  the  last  new  arrival  she  in- 
dicates my  place,  which  is  quite  at 
the  end  of  the  loner  table.  Olora  is 

o  o 

near  the  top,  and  sits  close  to  the 
genius,  Mr.  Morris. 

About  fifty  people  sit  on  each  side 
of  a  very  long  table.  At  a  sideboard 
the  fat  bonne,  whose  name  is  Uranie, 
pours  out  tea  and  coffee,  with  wonder- 
ful,  celerity,  serves  everybody  right 
and  left;  she  darts  from  one  to  an- 
other with  a  quickness  of  step  that  is 
delightful  to  witness ;  while  serving 
she  has  a  funny,  witty  repartee  al- 
ways ready.  At  my  right  sits  an 
Irish  girl,  as  I  instantly  discover  by 
her  rich  musical  brogue.  She  is 
pretty ;  large  gray  eyes  and  auburn 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  135 


hair.  Her  mother  sits  next  to  her : 
they  are  on  their  way  home  from 
Italy.  Opposite  to  me  is  a  large  tribe 
of  Americans.  >k  Well !  do  they  call 
that  breakfast  on  this  side  of  the 
pond  ? "  exclaims  the  man  of  the 
party,  putting  up  his  eyeglass.  "  I 
really  see  nothing.  In  our  country, 
madam,"  addressing  the  Irish  girl,  "  we 
have  for  breakfast  stewed  beefsteaks, 
chops,  tongue,  ham,  eggs,  potatoes 
dressed  in  a  dozen  different  ways,  oat- 
meal cakes,  pumpkin  pie,  jams,  jellies, 
creams,  and  hot  bread  of  different 
kinds;  but  here  I  just  spy  a  few  un- 
happy-looking sardines  and  some  eggs. 
Call  this  breakfast?  Well,  I  suppose 
we  must  make  the  best  of  it,  but  I 
pronounce  this  starvation. 

"  In  the  States  we  breakfast  at  seven 
o'clock,  for  every  man  goes  to  busi- 
ness at  eight;  but  Europe  is  a  slow 


136      /-V  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


place,  and  the  French  have  nothing 
to  do  but  smoke  and  go  to  cafes,  I 
guess.  In  England  we  always  get  the 
same  food ;  no  variety,  and  every- 
thing so  greasy." 

The  two  American  young  ladies 
are  flirting  desperately  with  a  fair 
young  Englishman. 

"  1  guess,"  says  the  prettier  of  the 
two,  "  that  you  like  better  travelling 
without  your  mother." 

This  speech  is  accompanied  by  a 
look  that  cannot  be  described.  The 
young  man  blushes,  and  says  that  his 
mother  is  old,  and  naturally  prefers 
the  quiet  of  her  country  home  in 
England. 

A  little  higher  up  the  table  sits  the 
funny  man  of  the  boarding-house. 
His  name  is  Mr.  Smiles.  He  is  a 
fine,  tall,  good-looking  man,  with 
splendid  teeth,  loud  voice,  and  such  a 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  137 


ringing  laugh  !  It  shakes  the  room, 
and  is  so  infectious  that  everybody 
joins  in  it.  He  is  sitting  by  the  side 
of  a  very  ugly  old  lady  with  a  brown 
wig  on  one  side,  and  we  hear  him  'all 
over  the  room  saying, 

u  Now,  dear  Mrs.  Kingsley,  you  have 
not  done  your  hair  properly  this 
morning  ;  }TOU  know  that  it  hurts  my 
feelings  to  think  that  you  no  longer 
care  to  appear  charming  in  my  eyes. 
Are  you  beginning  to  care  less  for 
Theophilus  Smiles?"  And  he  puts 
his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  turns  his 
eyes  up  in  a  sentimental  comical  way, 
which  is  diverting. 

Mrs.  Kingsley  titters  and  seems 
pleased. 

Not  far  from  Olga  sits  a  pretty 
English  girl,  with  brown  eyes  and 
brown  hair.  This  young  lady  is 
having  a  hot  altercation  withagentle- 


138      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


man  opposite,  who  is  evidently  more 
amused  than  excited.  This  young 
lady  is  a  red-hot  republican.  She  is 
declaring  that  the  only  thing  worth 
living  for  is  the  republic ;  that  is  her 
chief  thought,  her  first  principle.  She 
would  give  up  life  readily  for  that 
glorious  cause.  She  has  come  over  to 
Paris  on  purpose  to  see  Gambetta. 
She  takes  in  all  the  American  and 
Spanish  papers,  so  that  she  may  be 
well  an  fait  with  passing  events  in 
republican  countries.  She  argues 
that  England  is  republican  at  heart ; 
that  the  Queen  is  merely  an  orna- 
ment, but  that  the  masses  are  demo- 
crats. Of  course  this  speech  is  a 
bomb-shell.  Miss  Hutchinson  is 
called  to  order. 

The  Americans  scream  out  nasally 
that  royalty  is  mere  fancy-work,  and 
everything  and  everybody  appertain- 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  139 


ing  to  it  a  mistake,  a  nuisance.  Yes, 
democracy  is  making  rapid  strides. 
In  less  than  twenty  years  the  repub- 
lic will  be  established  everywhere. 

Miss  Hutchinson  is  so  pleased  at 
iinding  herself  thus  supported  that 
she  gets  up  from  her  chair,  rushes  to 
the  American  camp,  and  they  all 
shake  hands.  Then  Mr.  Smiles  sol- 
emnly rises,  stretches  out  his  long 
fingers,  and  says  "  Bless  you,  my 
children." 

This  causes  general  laughter,  and 
for  the  present  the  discussion  is  at 
an  end. 

Mr.  Blake  is  sitting  next  to  a  nice 
ladylike  widow,  who  my  pretty  neigh- 
bor tells  me  is  on  the  look  out  for  a 
third  husband. 

Breakfast  is  over;  the  boarders 
disappear.  T  join  Olga,  who  is  still 
talking  to  Mr.  Morris.  This  man  is 


140      IX  THE  MIDXT  OF  PA  RIS. 


evidently  under  her  spell :  his  look, 
his  manner,  denote  that  profound  ad- 
miration which  cannot  be  acted.  Mr. 
Morris  advances  towards  me,  and 
asks  me  if  I  will  honor  his  small 
studio  with  a  visit,  and  accompany 
Mdlle.  Soultlkoff.  I  gladly  consent, 
and  we  both  follow  him  upstairs  to 
the  top  of  this  very  big  house. 

"  It  is  an  honor  that  he  is  paying 
you,"  whispers  Olga.  "  He  has 
never,  with  the  exception  of  myself, 
invited  any  one  to  his  studio,  and 
nearly  all  the  people  entreat  him  to 
let  them  have  a  peep  ;  but  no  use. 
So  he  is  not  a  favorite  in  this  house ; 
people  generally  think  him  conceited. 
But  really  he  is  not  so  :  he  is  con- 
scious of  his  power,  and  is  sensitive 
and  refined." 

Mounting  a  queer  little  back  stair- 
case we  enter  a  kind  of  garret  in  the 


IN  THE  STUDIO. 


roof  of  the  house.  What  a  delight- 
ful view  !  The  Seine  is  twinkling  at 
our  feet ;  steamers  are  rushing  by ; 
we  can  just  see  the  towers  of  Notre 
Dame  and  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  the 
quays,  and  old  book  stalls,  and  curi- 
osity shops.  The  room  is  hung  all 
round  with  sketches  in  oils  and  water 
colors. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  attracts 
my  attention  is  the'  picture  of  a  girl 
in  white  standing  in  an  autumnal 
landscape ;  the  tints  of  the  foliage 
are  of  a  golden  brown,  at  her  feet  are 
crisp  brown  leaves,  while  she  holds 
some  dead  leaves  in  her  white  hands. 
There  is  a  listless,  lonely  look  in  the 
face,  but  the  likeness  to  Olga  is  strik- 
ing :  the  same  graceful  figure,  the 
same  light,  untidy,  wavy  masses  of 
fair  hair,  the  same  concentrated 
thought,  and  just  a  tinge  of  sadness 


142      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


in  the  large  dark  gray  eyes.  Same 
sweetness  in  the  mouth,  but  a  little 
more  determination  in  the  chin,  and 
slightly  knitted  eyebrows.  The 
painting  of  the  face  is  beautiful ; 
there  is  a  tenderness  of  treatment 
which  is  remarkable,  and  the  coloring 
is  full  of  harmony.  The  background 
is  a  sunset,  the  clouds  are  purple  and 
gold. 

"  This  picture  is  the  only  produc- 
tion of  mine  which  gives  me  any  sort 
of  pleasure,"  says  Mr.  Morris  ;  "  and 
I  shall  never  part  with  it.'5  And  he 
gives  Olga  a  tender  look,  but  she 
does  not  respond  to  it,  and  calls  my 
attention  to  some  of  the  sketches 
which  are  sufficient  to  show  that  Mr. 
Morris  is  a  man  of  genius.  Some 
striking  landscapes  are  lying  about — 
a  dark  pool  of  water,  illuminated  by 
one  streak  of  strong,  rippling  light, 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  143 


long  tall  willows,  and  a  stork  sleep- 
ing and  standing  on  one  leg ;  a  sea- 
piece,  gray  sky,  gloomy  shore,  a  white 
bird  fluttering  sadly  over  the  white- 
crested  waves ;  studies  of  rocks  by 
moonlight,  in  deep  purple  shadows 
and  strong  silvery  lights. 

The  charm  in  these  various  produc- 
tions is  the  intense  feeling,  the  pathe- 
tic striving  after  a  something  beyond 
— unattainable.  They  are  the  pro- 
ductions of  a  man  that  has  evidently 
suffered  acutely.  He  has,  I  suspect, 
loved  deeply  and  has  been  disappoint- 
ed. These  are  my  thoughts  as  I  see 
on  all  sides  heads  full  of  sadness, 
wistfulness,  and  even  despair. 

•"•  I  suppose  you  do  not  care  to 
make  money  by  your  art  ?  " 

"  No.  In  my  opinion  art  is  a  reli- 
gion, a  creed,  a  faith.  The  creation 
of  the  beautiful  ouQfht  to  be  the 


144      iy  THE  MID8T  OF  PARIS. 


highest  ambition  of  an  artist.  Our 
notions  of  the  beautiful  vary  accord- 
ing to  our  temperament  and  edu- 
cation. Perfection  of  form,  harmony 
of  color,  depth  of  expression,  is  what 
I  strive  to  render.  When  I  shall  be 
satisfied,  then  perhaps  I  shall  send  to 
the  different  exhibitions." 

'•  And  now.  before  we  leave  this 
delightful  studio,  play  something  on 
the  piano  for  my  friend,"  says  Olga, 
opening  the  instrument. 

"  You  know  that  1  must  obey  my 
queen,"  lie  answers,  bowing;  "but 
as  a  rule  I  do  not  play  for  any  one. 
The  music  I  enjoy  is  not  popular,  for 
it  is  generally  found  incomprehen- 
sible by  the  masses,  but  1  firmly 
believe  that  it  will  be  the  music  of 
the  future.  Gounod  is  my  favorite 
master." 

He    sits    down,  and    after  a    few 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  145 


strange,  wild  preludes,  plays  portions 
of  that  ideal  masterpiece,  "  Faust." 
I  feel  transported  into  a  world  of 
strange  fancies,  inhabited  by  mystical 
visionary  beings.  It  is  all  vague, 
striking,  original. 

I  am  roused  by  Olga,  who  taps  me 
on  the  shoulder  and  tells  me  it  is 
time  to  leave.  Mr.  Morris  makes  us 
promise  to  return  soon  again,  and  we 
bid  him  au  revoir. 

"  It  is  curious  how  much  genius, 
power,  and  passion  are  contained  in 
this  small  room,  and  how  much  ennui, 
stupidity,  nonsense,  shaliowness,  and 
gossip,  inhabit  the  remainder  of  this 
large  house,"  remarks  Olga,  as  we 
descend  the  staircase  and  enter  our 
room.  k>  Lunch  with  me  in  my  sit- 
ting room  ;  I  find  it  such  a  tre- 
mendous bore  to  assist  at  the  general 

luncheon  ;  one  gets  so  tired  of  seeing 

10 


14(J      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


always  the  same  people,  hearing  the 
same  jokes,  and  eating  the  same 
food." 

"  Well,  Yankee  is  right,"  I  remark, 
"  when  he  said  that  money  is  power, 
and  gives  liberty ;  if  you  had  not 
plenty  of  filthy  lucre  you  could  not 
afford  to  have  your  own  way,  and  eat 
pdte  de  foie  ffras  in  your  own  room 
instead  of  joining  at  the  common 
table  and  partaking  of  more  homely 
fare.  T  like  money,  though  I  admire 
Mr.  Morris's  views — lie  is  so  full  of 
imagination,  that  he  must  be  quite 
happy." 

"  No,"  answers  Olga,  "  Mr.  Morris 
is  not  really  a  happy  man.  Of  course 
he  must  have  moments  of  intense 
gratification,  but  his  ideal  of  beauty 
is  so  elevated  that  he  is  miserable 
when  he  cannot  attain  it." 

"  There    is    no    doubt,    Olga,   that 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  147 


Mr.  Morris  is  in  love  with  you  :  his 
manner,  his  look  show  that  you 
occupy  his  thoughts,  and  th:\t  beauti- 
ful picture  is  an  expression  of  his 
feelings." 

"  Yes,  I  think  Mr.  Morris  admires 
me  very  much.  Why  should  he  not 
do  so  ? 

"  I  am  pretty,  artistic,  and  with  all 
my  faults,  I  am  attractive;  but  his 
nature  is  rather  like  mine,  so  T  simply 
feel  sympathy  and  admire  his  lofty 
views :  but  T  have  not  a  bit  of  love 
for  him  ;  my  heart  does  not  beat  any 
quicker,  my  pulse  is  just  the  same 
when  he  approaches  me.  I  think 
quite  calmly  of  him,  and  would  not 
be  at  all  jealous  if  he  fell  in  love  witli 
any  other  girl.  He  is  very  odd:  his 
mother  was  a  German,  and  I  fancy 
that  she  was  rather  queer — in  fact,  I 
imagine  that  she  was  slightly  insane  ; 


148      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  I'AIUS. 


lie  has  inherited  from  her  unhealthy, 
odd  notions.  He  has  often  told  me 
that  he  would  rather  not  marry  a 
woman  he  was  in  love  with  :  love  is 
such  a  strange  feeling  that  he  would 
like  to  feel  eternally  the  pleasure  and 
pain  it  occasions,  and  to  enjoy  the 
torture  of  not  possessing  what  he 
longs  for.  It  is  a  curious  idea,  but  I 
daresay  he  is  right ;  marriage  must, 
in  a  way,  destroy  the  poetry  of  love. 
"  A  sincere  attachment  and  quiet 
happiness  follows,  but  many  illusions 
vanish.  He  told  me,  that  as  a  young 
fellow,  he  fell  in  love  with  a  beauti- 
ful girl,  who  sang  and  danced  like  fin 
angel,  and  whose  face  was  a  vision  of 
beauty — well,  she  loved  him  ;  they 
met  often  at  a  country  house  and  she 
promised  to  marry  him.  Strange,  the 
idea  frightened  and  disenchanted  him 
so  much  that,  for  fear  his  love  should 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  149 


vanish,  he  went  away  engaged  to  her. 
In  his  absence,'  she  caught  a  fearful 
cold,  and  three  weeks  after  his  depart- 
ure she  was  lying  in  her  grave.  I\v 
was  travelling  about, and  did  not  know 
of  her  death  till  he  returned.  His 
grief  was  intense,  and  still  he  confesses 
that  to  him  there  is  a  melancholy 
pleasure  in  the  idea  that  she  died 
loving  him  entirely,  without  having 
belonged  to  him.  He  is  an  eccentric 
creature,  and  as  he  has  frankly  spoken 
to  me  about  his  odd  notions,  he  can- 
not expect  me  to  wish  to  marry  him. 
He  is  a  poet,  an  artist,  and  a  musi- 
cian, utterly  unfitted  for  the  prose  of 
married  life." 

HI. 

WHAT  a  clamor,  clatter,  and  babel 
of  tongues ! 

The  musical  English   of  America, 


150      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

the  rich  brogue  of  Ireland,  some  nasal 
English  voices — -all  talking  and  laugh- 
ing at  once,  so  loudly. 

Miss  Magee  is  laughing  musically, 
and  making  fun  of  Mr.  Smiles,  who 
had  been  flirting  vigorously  in  the 
vaults  underneath  the  Pantheon,  and 
had  proposed  to  a  wrong  lady  in  the 
dark. 

Mr.  Blake  sits  this  evening  at  my 
right  hand,  and  Mrs.  Merriman,  the 
widow,  at  Mr.  Blake's  left. 

A  deaf  elderly  gentleman  sits  op- 
posite to  me,  and  is  talking  out  loud 
to  himself.  I  hear  him  m uttering. 
"Why  will  that  silly  old  woman, 
Mrs.  Kingsley,  wear  a  brown  wig  in- 
stead of  her  own  white  hair,  and  why 
will  she  bob  her  foolish  head  up  and 
down,  while  that  idiot  Smiles  makes 
an  ass  of  himself?  If  that  fellow 
could  only  see  himself  as  others  see 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  151 


lii in  he  would  stop.  I  liate  to  see  a 
man  grimacing,  gesticulating,  and 
behaving  altogether  like  his  ancestoi-s, 
the  monkeys."  F  laugh  ;  but  the  up- 
roar at  dinner  is  so  great  that  nobody 
listens  to  anybody  else. 

"I  like  that  old  bo}T,"  remarks  Mr. 
Blake.  "  I  often  go  and  smoke  in 
his  room.  Old  Douglas  is  a  chip  of 
the  old  block ;  lie  is  a  great  reader,  a 
traveller ;  but,  he  is  as  cynical  as 
Diogenes,  and  generally  rude  to  his 
equals;  but  he  is  fond  of  animals, 
children  ;  but  curiously  enough,  de- 
spises women." 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Douglas  has  had 
a  disappointment  in  his  youth,  poor 
man  !  I  am  sorry  for  him,"  lisps 
Mrs.  Merriman  with  a  gentle  sigh. 

"The  devil  take  her,"  mutters  out 
loud  Mr.  Douglas.  "  There  !  she  has 
just  carried  off  my  favorite  bit  of 


152      /iV   THE  MIJJfiT  OF  PARIS. 


chicken,  just  the  slice  I  have  had  my 
eye  upon.  What  a  greedy  \vonian 
she  is,  to  be  sure  !  " 

This  ebullition  of  deaf  Mr.  Doug- 
las, is  intended  for  Mrs.  Melligrew, 
a  fat,  ruddy  faced  Englishwoman, 
in  military  mourning,  scarlet  and 
black,  who  is  just  depositing  upon 
her  plate  the  wing  of  a  chicken,  some 
stuffing,  etc.,  unconscious  of  Mr. 
Douglas's  remarks. 

The  dinner  is  over,  and  we  all  go 
up  to  the  drawing-room. 

Olga,  Mrs.  Blake,  and  I,  go  and 
sit  in  the  balcony,  and  from  that 
observatory  watch  the  different 
boarders.  Mr.  Morris  disappears  to 
his  den.  All  the  old  ladies  sit  to- 
gether at  one  end  of  the  room.  The 
girls  cluster  round  Mr.  Smiles  and  a 
Mr.  Chambers,  a  mild  disciple  of  Mr. 
Smiles,  who  laughs  at  all  his  jokes, 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  153 


and  is  his  shadow.  Mr.  Smiles  is 
now  in  his  element,  he  stalks  off  to 
the  piano,  and  with  great  entrain 
sings  the  famous  couplet  "  L'amour 
est  un  enfant  de  bohe'me."  All 
the  young  ladies  join  in  this  chorus, 
even  Olga  and  Mi-.  Blake  chime 
in  from  the  balcony.  Mr.  Smiles 
sings  this  very  comically,  and  with  all 
the  appropriate  gestures  of  an  artist. 

"  Do  you  see  that  nice-looking  old 
lady  sitting  there  ? "  says  Olga, 
pointing  out  an  old  lady  with  soft 
brown  eyes  and  white  hair,  "that  is 
Miss  Peleg.  If  anybody  feels  at  all 
poorly — it  does  not  matter  about  the 
symptoms,  those  are  of  no  con- 
sequence— we  go  to  Miss  Peleg,  and 
she  gives  everybody  the  same  medi- 
cine :  two  teaspoonfuls  of  Birch's 
Salts.  A  cold  in  the  head,  indiges- 
tion, neuralgia,  rheumatism,  etc.,  etc., 


154      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


treated  in  the  same  way  ;  for  Miss 
Peleg  believes  implicitly  in  this  un- 
failing remedy  and  when  any  of  the 
boarders  feel  queer,  they  go  up  to 
Miss  Peleg  to  be  Birched ;  and  if 
anybody  dies,  it  is  because  they 
have  not  taken  those  wonderful  salts 
in  time.  Since  I  am  at  Madame 
D  u  pout's,  I  have  had  Birch's  Salts, 
at  least  forty  times,  and  I  live  !  " 

Mr.  Blake  is  now  called  upon  to 
play.  He  is  very  obliging — does  not 
make  a  fuss.  1  le  plays  the  "  Coulin," 
that  grand,  pathetic,  old  Irish  air, 
and  he  plays  it  so  exquisitely  that  he 
is  made  to  play  it  a  second,  and  even 
a  third  time.  He  then  accompanies 
Miss  Magee,  who  sings  "  Kate  Kear- 
ney," "  My  Love  is  like  a  red,  red 
Rose,"  and  "  The  Wearing  of  the 
Green."  Olga  and  I  remark  that  Mrs. 
.Merriman's  smile  is  no  longer  child- 


I.\  THE  STUDIO. 


like  and  bland,  as  she  watches  the 
pretty  Irish  girl  sing  those  wild 
pathetic  airs  as  only  an  Irish  girl  can 
sing  them.  Perhaps  the  widow  feels 
a  little  jealous  as  she  perceives  the 
admiration  that  Mr.  Blake  evidently 
has  for  this  charming  Hibernian,  with 
her  sunny  smile,  her  ringing  laugh, 
and  musical  brogue. 

"  I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Blake  is  a 
little  bit  in  love  with  Miss  Magee," 
whispers  Olga  to  me  on  the  balcony  ; 
"  and  I  fancy  that  the  widow  does 
not  like  it.  I  should  like  Mr.  Blake 
to  marry  Mary  Magee ;  they  would 
be  so  well  suited.  They  are  both 
musical,  very  Irish,  and  she  is  such 
a  bright,  unaffected  girl.  Now  Mrs. 

o  o 

Merriman  is  a  kind  of  female  Blue 
Beard — a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 
I  should  not  like  her  to  kill  Mr. 
Blake,  for  he  is  a  nice  little  fellow." 


156      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

"  You  and  Miss  Magee  are  hard  upon 
this  unfortunate  widow.  I  think  her 
rather  attractive  ;  she  has  a  low  sweet 
voice ;  her  manners  are  good.  I  con- 
fess that  this  eternal  sweet  smile,  pro- 
vokes me." 

"  Now  let  us  retire  to  our  bed- 
room," says  Olga.  "  We  have  had  a 
good  dose  of  gossip  and  scandal,  let  us 
go  before  we  either  of  us  have  said 
something  that  we  shall  regret  pro- 
foundly the  next  morning.  I  do  envy 
those  quiet  people,  who  never  do. 
say  or  write  an  impulsive  thing  ;  who 
never  get  into  scrapes.  They  may  be  a 
little  dull,  perhaps,  but  how  safe  they 
are — how  respectable  !  " 

IV. 

OLOA  and  T  now  go  regularly  to 
Madame  Latour's  studio.  An  old 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  157 

man  with  a  long  white  beard,  fur- 
rowed face,  attired  in  the  costume  of 
a  monk,  is  our  model.  I  feel  that  I 
make  great  strides  in  art,  Madame 
Latour  is  such  a  good  teacher.  She 
comes  into  our  studio  once  a- day  for 
about  an  hour ;  but  her  aclvice  is  so 
good,  her  corrections  so  conscientious, 
that  the  progress  we  make  is  remark- 
able. My  study  of  the  monk  is  the 
second  best;  Olga's  is  the  best.  J3he 
signs  those  two  works,  as  a  proof  of 
her  approbation. 

Madame  Latour  allows  us  now  and 
then  to  come  into  her  studio  and 
watch  her  process  of  working.  She 
is  painting  a  Bacchante :  the  head 
thrown  back,  vine  leaves  encircling 
the  red-brown  hair,  and  eyes  full 
of  voluptuousness  and  fire  ;  the  throat 
and  neck  are  beautifully  modelled, 
and  over  the  bosom  is  a  gorgeous 


168      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

leopard  skin.  One  Land  presses  a 
bunch  of  grapes,  the  other  hangs  list- 
lessly at  her  side. 

At  four  o'clock  the  pupils  leave  the 
studio.  Olga  and  I  usually  saunter 
through  the  streets  of  Paris,  look  into 
the  shops,  and  often  drop  into  some 
of  the  beautiful  old  Roman  Catholic 
churches.  The  quiet,  the  subdued 
light  pouring  in  through  the  colored 
windows,  the  paintings,  the  incense, 
the  solemn  peals  of  the  organ,  the 
fresh  voices  of  les  enfants  du  chceur  in 
their  white  and  colored  garments, 
the  harmony  of  the  architecture,  is  an 
attraction  to  the  artistic  temperament. 

One  afternoon  we  had  a  sort  of 
religious  discussion.  I  said  that  I 
found  the  so-called  Low  Church  cold, 
unsympathetic,  and  even  very  dull ; 
and  going  to  pray  at  stated  hours 
and  days  formal  and  unnatural. 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  159 


Now,  in  Catholic  communities  the 
churches  are  always  opened ;  and 
when  you  need  prayer,  and  would 
desire  repose,  it  is  a  comfort  to  drop 
into  one  of  those  old  churches  ;  and 
even  if  no  service  is  going  on,  it  is 
soothing  to  listen  to  the  silence,  to  be 
in  an  atmosphere  of  subdued  light. 
There  is  more  poetry  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith,  with  all  its  grievous 
errors. 

"  I  am  a  pagan,''  says  Olga. 
"  Nature  is  my  god ;  the  sun,  the 
stars,  and  the  yellow  moon  are  my 
deities.  On  Sundays  I  generally 
take  long  rambles  in  the  country 
with  Fido,  my  dog,  and  my  little 
maid  Nina.  Sometimes,  when  the 
spirit  moves  me,  which  is  seldom,  I 
go  to  hear  the  celebrated  pa&teur, 
Monsieur  Bonchemin,  le  paateur  a  la 
All  the  ladies  run  after  him, 


160      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


and  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  I  go  so 
seldom  to  his  chapel,  for  it  makes  me 
ill  to  see  how  women  turn  the  heads 
of  those  servants  of  God  !  Monsieur 
Bonchemin  is  a  man  of  great  elo- 
quence. 

"  His  sermons  are  great  intellect- 
ual treats  :  he  never  reads  his  ser- 
mons, and  that  is  such  an  advantage  ! 
His  utterance  is  delightful,  voice 
beautiful;  he  never  hesitates  for  a 
word.  He  is  very  handsome,  like  a 
St.  John,  with  a  slightly  melancholy 
r£veiir  expression,  which  is  fascina- 
ting. His  hands  are  beautiful,  and 
he  knows  it,  for  one  of  these  append- 
ages he  lets  hang  gracefully  down 
the  pulpit  cushion.  He  is  the 
woman's  pasteur — a  kind  of  Protes- 
tant Pope:  his  power  is  great,  his 
appeals  to  the  conscience  are  search- 
ing and  keen,  and  he  certainly  makes 


7.V   THE  STUDIO.  161 


nie  feel  horribly  uncomfortable ;  but 
when  I  see  all  those  elegant  toilettes, 
those  wonderful  Paris  bonnets.  I 
do  not  feel  at  all  as  if  I  was  wor- 
shipping an  unseen  God — merely 
listening  to  a  handsome,  eloquent 
preacher. 

"  So  I  prefer  nature  :  I  feel  more 
elevated  looking  at  a  fine  sunset,  or 
at  the  sea,  than  kneeling  upon  a  hard 
footstool,  surrounded  by  silks,  satins, 
and  prosperity.  Vanit.as  vanitatum, 
omnia  vanitas !  Do  you  know  Mr. 
Morris  is  a  Positivist,  a  follower  of 
Comte?  He  worships  humanity. 
He  tells  me  he  does  his  duty,  and 
tries  to  love  his  neighbor.  As  far  as 
I  know,  his  notion  of  duty  is  to  paint 
pictures,  and  I  do  not  think  he  cares 
for  his  neighbors.  He  is  often  much 
depressed  ;  and  really  I  do  not  won- 
der at  it,  for  it  is  hard  to  have 
ii 


162      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PAPIS 


little  in  this  world,  and  to  think 
he  will  have  nothing  at  all  in  the 
next." 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation, 
who  should  we  see  but  Mr.  Morris, 
in  an  old  battered  wide-awake,  a  very 
shabby  coat,  and  a  portfolio  under 
his  arm.  Olga  taps  him  on  the  back 
with  her  parasol.  He  starts,  and 
looks  uncomfortable.  We  tell  him 
that  we  were  just  talking  about  him, 
and  saying  that  it  was  a  pity  he  did 
not  believe  in  a  future  state. 

"  The  boulevards  are  scarcely  a  fit 
place  for  a  discussion  upon  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul,"  answers  Mr. 
Morris  smiling ;  "  but  if  you  are  anx- 
ious to  know  my  belief,  all  I  can  say 
is,  that  my  mind  is  not  made  up.  I 
feel  that  I  have  a  soul,  and  do  not 
think  it  will  perish." 

"  Let  us  leave  the  soul  alone,"  ex- 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  163 


claims  Olga,  looking  into  a  cake  shop. 
"  I  shall  perish  if  I  do  not  eat.  Let 
us  enter  this  patisserie,  and  fill  our 
inner  beings  ! " 

Mr.  Morris  tries  to  escape.  He 
declares  that  he  is  not  in  a  fit  state 
to  be  seen  walking  in  ladies'  society ; 
he  has  been  sketching  all  day  at  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes. 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Morris,  that  I  am 
also  a  Bohemian,  and  do  not  mind 
how  shabby  you  look." 

We  insist  so  much  that  he  consents 
to  remain  with  us,  and  so  we  enter 
the  shop,  devour  a  number  of  cream 
Sclairs,  and  Olga  orders  a  parcel  of 
cakes,  biscuits,  and  bonbons  to  be 
made  up  for  a  small  protege  of  hers, 
a  cripple  boy,  whom  she  is  going  to 
visit  the  following  day. 

We  walk  through  the  Tuileries 
Gardens.  IIo\v  imposing  the  ruins 


164     IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


of  this  once  mighty  palace  look  in 
this  twilight ! 

There  is  something  very  grand 
about  the  old  Chateau  now,  as  it 
stands  there  mutilated.  What  pages 
of  history  have  been  enacted  there ! 
— a  whole  past  swept  away !  The 
Gardens  are  at  this  hour  deserted. 
The  statues  seem  quite  mournful, 
and  look  like  ghosts  in  this  dim  gray 
light.  A  solitary  white  swan  is 
gliding  warily  in  a  dismal  pond  ;  the 
trees  make"  a  dark  background ;  the 
clouds  are  purple  ;  there  is  a  thin 
mist  over  everything,  and  just  over 
the '  ruined  helpless  palace  peeps  a 
young  crescent  moon.  The  sentinel 
looks  like  an  uneasy  spirit,  as  lie 
stands  at  the  gate  of  the  Garden. 

We  cross  the  bridge,  down  the 
Qiiai  Voltaire,  and  peep  leisurely  in- 
to all  the  bric-a-brac  shops,  and  lastly 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  165 

we  enter  an  old  curiosity  shop,  full 
of  quaint  odd  pieces  of  furniture,  old 
china,  old  plate,  etc.  It  is  a  queer  little 
den.  The  shopman  is  a  Jew,  named 
Solomon — a  thin,  wiry  old  fellow, 
with  a  few  scanty  white  hairs  brushed 
carefully  over  his  narrow  head,  spec- 
tacles falling  down  his  long  thin 
nose.  In  his  wrinkled  hand  he  holds 
a  lamp,  which  casts  mysterious 
shadows  here  and  there  in  the  small 
shop.  "  A  picture  for  Rembrandt," 
I  think,  as  I  watch  the  old  Jew 
ferreting  out  his  antique  wares, 
beautiful  bronzes,  laces,  old  books, 
prints,  etc. 

"  What  a  splendid  bit  of  old  tapes- 
try !  It  would  look  well  in  my  little 
studio,"  exclaims  Mr.  Morris,  "  but  I 
must  not  be  tempted  to  buy  it." 

Olga  goes   up   to   the    shopman, 
whispers     something     mysteriously, 


166     7JV  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


and  the  piece  of  tapestry  is  folded 
up  and  presented  to  Mr.  Morris. 
u  A  souvenir  from  me,''  says  Olga 
to  him,  "  in  remembrance  of  this 
charming  walk." 

Mr.  Morris  changes  color,  looks 
bewildered,  refuses,  but  Olga  insists, 
so  he  naturally  ends  by  gratefully 
accepting  it. 

I  am  presented  with  a  pair  of  an- 
tique gold  earrings,  which  in  the 
innocence  of  my  heart  I  had  ad- 
mired. 

"  You  see  what  it  is  to  go  out  with 
this  Lady  Bountiful;  one  dare  not 
express  a  wish,"  says  Mr.  Morris. 

"  The  pleasure  is  greater  in  giving 
than  in  receiving,  so  say  nothing 
more  about  it." 

We  meet  Uranie  at  the  door  of  the 
pension,  who  tells  me,  to  my  great 
amazement,  that  my  cousin,  Mr.  Hor- 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  167 


ace  Dashwood,  "  a  varie  prettie  boy," 
is  upstairs,  waiting  to  see  me. 

"  How  very  absurd  !  "  Olga  and  I 
both  exclaim,  and  before  we  can  make 
any  further  remark  my  cousin  stands 
before  us. 

k-  Glad  to  see  you  both,"  Horace 
shouts,  shaking  hands  with  us  heart- 
ily ;  "  what  wild  Bohemians  you  are 
to  be  sure ! — meandering  about  Paris, 
not  coming  in  to  dinner,  and  not  tell- 
ing anybody  where  you  go." 

"  I  am  the  culprit,"  says  Mr.  Mor- 
ris, "  I  really  thought  it  a  pity  to  go 
indoors  such  a  lovely  evening,  so  I 
begged  the  young  ladies  to  dine  at  a 
restaurant." 

Mr.  Morris  looks  much  confused, 
bids  us  good-night,  and  Horace  fol- 
lows us  upstairs. 

"  Who  on  earth  is  that  fellow  ?  in 
such  a  shabby  old  coat  and  battered 


168      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

wide-awake  ?  An  artist,  of  course. 
I  cannot  understand  how  two  fashion- 
ably dressed  girls  could  walk  out  with 
a  man  in  such  a  beggarly  costume. 
You  consider  him  a  genius,  innocent 
young  creatures,  simply  because  he 
looks  dirty." 

"Now,  Mr.  Dash  wood,  I  will  not 
allow  you  to  call  Mr.  Morris  dirty; 
he  is  a  great  artist,  and  no  donbt  a 
man  of  genius  too.  You  think,  evi- 
dently, that  the  coat  makes  the  man. 
Some  men  do  depend  entirely  upon 
their  tailor  for  success  in  the  world  ; 
Mr.  Morris  is  above  such  a  considera- 
tion. He  has  a  soul  above  buttons." 

"  Well,  I  wish  he  had  some  more 
buttons  to  his  coat.  I  am  sorry,  Made- 
moiselle Olga,  if  I  have  hurt  your  feel- 
ings. All  I  can  say  is,  that  if  artists 
are  all  like  Mr.  Morris  then  I  would 
rather  not  know  any.  B ut  let  us  drop 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  169 


this  very  unpleasant  topic.  You 
look  very  cross,  Mademoiselle  Olga." 

Olga  pouts,  and  disappears  from 
the  room. 

"  I  suppose  I  have  annoyed  her. 
Is  she  engaged  to  that  wild  Bohe- 
mian in  the  old  wide-awake?" 

"No,  she  is  not;  but  he  is  a  very 
great  admirer  of  hers — in  fact,  I  am 
sure  the  man  is  in  love  with  her.  So 
you  ought  to  be  more  careful,  and 
not  give  vent  to  all  your  notions 
about  artists.  Mr.  Morris  will  one 
day  make  his  mark  in  the  world." 

Horace  gives  a  long  contemptuous 
whistle:  "  I  do  not  pretend  to  under- 
stand artists ;  they  are  a  race  apart." 

After  a  little  talk  about  family 
affairs  Olga  returns.  To  my  amuse- 
ment she  has  changed  her  dress,  and 
put  on  a  most  becoming  lilac  silk 
dress,  and  placed  a  coquettish  lilac 


170      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


ribbon  in  her  wavy  hair.  I,  of  course, 
make  no  outward  and  visible  sign  of 
my  astonishment ;  but  evidently  this 
inconsistent  little  maiden  is  a  flirt, 
and  consequently,  bent  upon  making 
a  conquest  of  my  cousin,  the  famous 
woman-hater ! 

"  Won't  you  and  Mr.  Horace  come 
into  my  parlor  and  have  some  supper? 
— but  you  must  not  abuse  Mr.  Morris, 
or  we  shall  quarrel  dreadfully." 

An  exquisite  little  supper  is  laid 
out  on  the  table.  A  couple  of  lamps 
shed  a  soft  light.  The  water  is  hiss- 
ing in  the  urn.  Comfort,  luxury, 
and  artistic  objects  make  this  room 
a  little  Paradise.  The  windows  are 
open,  and  in  the  balcony  stand  masses 
of  roses,  heliotropes,  and  lilies  of  the 
valley. 

"  What  a  lovely  room  ! "  exclaims 
Horace.  "  Paris  taste,  good  English 


JN  THE  STUDIO.  171 


comfort:  what  more  can  a  mortal 
require  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Dashwood,  though  I  am 
an  artist  and  a  Bohemian,  I  do  like 
pretty  things,  and  no  end  of  luxury. 
I  hope  that  you  admire  my  dress  ?  it 
is  made  hy  a  very  fashionable  dress- 
maker." And  she  makes  him  a  pro- 
found courtesy. 

"  I  have  been  admiring  you  ;  such 
a  toilette  could  only  come  out  of  the 
hands  of  a  Parisian  dressmaker,  and 
those  dear  little  shoes  that  I  spy  are 
works  of  art." 

Olga  takes  off  her  slipper,  and 
hands  it  to  Horace  for  nearer  inspec- 
tion. It  is  very  small,  of  lilac  satin, 
embroidered  with  silver  braid. 

"  Cinderella's  slipper ;  and  you, 
Horace,  are  the  Prince,"  I  remark. 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Dashwood  is  not  gal- 
lant enough  for  that:  his  chief  failing 


172      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


is  not  to  admire  us  poor  women,  alas ! 
But  I  think  we  can  do  without  his 
admiration.  Have  some  sparkling 
moselle  or  champagne,  or  both,  and 
eat  same  of  the  pdt£  de  lievre,  Mr. 
Horace,  and  tell  me  what  you  have 
been  doing  with  your  great  self  since 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  more 
than  a  year  ago." 

"Well,  I  have  been  doing  what 
most  of  us  Englishmen  spend  the 
greater  part  of  our  lives  in  doing, 
that  is,  killing  beasts,  birds,  and  fishes, 
viz.,  hunting,  shooting,  .and  fishing. 
You  foreigners  can  hardly  under- 
stand or  appreciate  this  mode  of  life." 

"  Well,  I  do  think,"  answers  Olga, 
"  that  hunting  and  shooting  is  very 
cruel  sport :  to  see  a  number  of  big, 
burly  men,  spending  their  energies 
running  after  a  poor  fox,  or  a  little 
hare,  it  seems  wicked  ;  and  as  for  deer- 


JN  THE  STUDIO.  173 

stalking,  I  simply  think  it  is  a  crime. 
I  cannot  understand  how  any  man 
can  wound  a  beautiful  deer,  with  its 
splendid  horns  and  lovely  piteous 
eyes,  looking  so  pleading  ;  no,  I  think 
it  cowardly.  I  do  not  think  fishing 
so  bad,"  says  Olga.  "  It  is  rather 
nice  sport ;  one  sits  in  a  boat,  with  a 
pretty  landscape  all  about,  for  the 
scenery  is  generally  lovely,  the  water 
delicious,  and  one  has  merely  to  wait 
for  the  fish ;  and  when  it  is  caught 
the  poor  thing  does  not  seem  to  dis- 
like it  so  very  much,  he  does  not 
scream  or  bleed.  No,  fishing  is  rath- 
er a  poetical  pastime." 

Horace  laughs  heartily.  "  You 
know  little  about  fishing  if  you  im- 
agine that  one  has  merely  to  wait 
quietly  for  the  fish  to  be  hooked  ;  but 
it  is  no  use  my  trying  to  initiate  you 
into  the  mysteries  of  fishing  in  your 


174      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


drawing-room.  When  you  come  over 
to  England  we  shall  have  some  fishing 
together,  I  hope." 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  so  jolly  !  I  shall 
be  mad  with  delight  if  I  can  just  fish 
up  a  salmon."  And  Olga  claps  her 
hands  at  the  mere  anticipation  of  such 
a  triumph. 

"  We  shall  not  begin  by  salmon- 
fishing,  I  assure  you ;  but  I  must 
retire,  Mademoiselle  Olga.  I  have 
much  enjoyed  my  evening  here.  We 
shall  meet  to-morrow  at  breakfast,  for 
I  am  staying  in  this  house.  So  bon 
soir." 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast, 
Horace  sits  between  Olga  and  me, 
to  the  evident  disgust  of  poor  Mr. 
Morris,  who  watches  us  gloomily 
from  his  side  of  the  table.  Mr.  Blake 
is  sitting  near  Mary  Magee,  in  close 
confabulation,  to  the  dismay  of  the 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  175 

widow.  Mr.  Smiles  is  between  the 
two  young  American  girls,  flirting 
cleverly  with  the  two.  Miss  Hutchin- 
son  is  smiling  radiantly  upon  a  red- 
hot  Radical.  We  can  overhear  a 
little  of  their  conversation. 

"  Why  should  not  women  be  in 
Parliament?  they  are  more  eloquent, 
more  tenacious  than  men." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  such  rubbish  ?  " 
says  Horace.  "  If  that  fellow  goes 
on  talking  such  arrant  bosh  I  shall 
surely  have  an  indigestion.  I  hate 
Radicals ;  they  never  look  gentle- 
manly. Xo\v  look  at  this  man,  his 
coat  does  not  fit  him  properly,  his 
nails  are  black.  Xow  a  Conservative 
always  looks  a  gentleman." 

Immediately  after  breakfast  we  all 
three  decide  upon  going  to  Asnieres 
to  see  Olga's  little  prot£g£,  the  cripple 
boy. 


176      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


V. 


IT  is  a  glorious  morning.  We  got 
out  of  the  train  at  Asnidres.  The 
river  looks  so  tempting,  that  we  get 
into  a  little  boat  and  Horace  rows 
us. 

He  decidedly  looks  to  great  advan- 
tage in  the  boat.  He  is  attired  in  a 
well-made  suit  of  light  gray  cloth  ; 
his  bright,  deep  blue  eyes  are  full  of 
fun  and  honesty;  his  chest  is  broad  and 
well-developed  ;  he  is  the  best  type  of 
the  '•  muscular  "school.  We  get  out 
of  the  boat  and  walk  across  a  field  full 
of  wild  flowers.  We  all  pick  some 
daisies  and  buttercups  to  give  to  poor 
little  Victor. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  he  is  not  long 
for  this  world,"  says  Olga.  "  I  fear 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  177 

he  is  slowly  pining  away.  His  mother 
died  during  the  siege  of  Paris,  lit- 
erally of  starvation,  for  she  could 
not  swallow  either  horseflesh,  rats, 
or  cats  ;  so  little  Victor  is  living  with 
his  old  grand'mere.  The  little  boy 
is  a  cripple,  and  in  a  consumption  ; 
hut  his  father,  a  most  intelligent, 
honest  workman,  will  not  believe  that 
his  child  is  seriously  ill.  There  is 
the  house,  that  little  white  place 
amongst  the  trees;  it  is  a  kind  of 
modest  inn,  where  one  can  have  fish, 
or  rather  friture,  bread  and  butter, 
and  cheap  wine. 

u  All  right,"  shouts  Horace  ;  "  I  am 
hungry.  I  shall  order  all  the  fish  in 
the  house  to  be  fried;  besides,  it  will 
put  some  money  into  those  poor 
people's  pockets." 

The  old  grand' mere  is  standing  at 
the  door  of  the  small  inn ;  a  fine  type 


12 


178      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

of  old  age.  Her  hair  is  snowy  white, 
a  colored  fichu  is  pinned  across  her 
broad  chest ;  by  her  side  totters  a  pale, 
thin,  emaciated  little  boy,  so  trans- 
parent looking,  that  one  could  almost 
fancy  a  strong  breath  of  wind  would 
waft  him  away,  holding  to  his  grancC- 
mdre's  skirts.  On  seeing  Olga  a 
bright  .sunny  smile  illuminates  his 
wan,  white  face. 

"  He  has  been  inquiring  after  you, 
mademoiselle,"'  says  the  grancCmdre, 
"  n't*t-ce  pas,  Victor  ?  You  are  glad 
to  see  Mademoiselle  Olga  ?  " 

The  child  creeps  to  her,  and  Olga 
gives  him  some  toys,  cakes,  and  bon- 
bons. 

Horace  takes  him  on  his  knees,  and 
gives  him  a  box  of  soldiers;  the  child 
at  first  seems  a  little  frightened,  but 
my  cousin  soon  makes  friends  with 
him.  and  they  chatter  quite  gayly  to- 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  179 

gether.  La  mere  Gigun  looks  sadly 
at  her  delicate  grandchild,  and  tells  us 
with  a  big  sigh  that  he  is  getting 
weaker  and  weaker. 

"  What  a  lovely  face  he  has  ! — such 
long,  soft  brown,  curly  hair,  large 
hazel  eyes,  with  such  a  wistful  expres- 
sion in  them.  How  I  should  like  to 
have  a  good  picture  of  him  !  "  mut- 
ters mere  Gigun,  "  for  no  photograph 
can  do  justice  to  him." 

"  That  is  an  idea !  Let  us  come 
and  paint  him,"  says  Olga. 

"  I  will  do  his  portrait  and  give 
it  to  you  and  his  father  ;  but  you  must 
allow  my  friend,  Miss  Larcom,  to 
paint  you  and  the  child  also.  She 
wants  a  sujet  for  a  picture." 

"  Only  too  happy  to  think  that  my 
old  face  can  be  of  use.  I  am  quite 
at  your  disposition,  mademoiselle." 

I  thank  the  old  woman.     We  ar- 


180      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PAKIS. 


range  to  conic  the  following  day  with 
our  easels,  canvases,  and  paint-boxes. 
Before  leaving  we  order  some  fried 
youjons  for  our  lunch.  Horace  com- 
pliments the  old  woman  upon  her 
cookery,  and  insists  upon  her  accept- 
ing a  twenty-franc  piece,  in  order 
that  she  may  get  a  few  delicacies  for 
the  child. 

Before  leaving,  Olga  takes  Victor 
upon  her  knee  and  tells  him  a  story. 
That  is  his  greatest  treat ;  for  he  is 
an  imaginative  child,  and  likes  to 
hear  about  fairies,  imps,  elves,  etc. 
Victor  exists  in  akindof  Wonderland, 
and  firmly  believes  that  he  is  alvvaj's 
surrounded  by  fairies.  His  grand? - 
mere  tells  us  that  he  often  says  he 
will  be  glad  to  go  and  live  among  the 
fairies  :  that  is  his  notion  of  death  ;  a 
change  from  what  he  is  now  to  a  beau- 
tiful being  who  lives  among  flowers, 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  181 


feeds    upon    honey    and   fruits,    lias 
wings,  and  visits  the  stars. 


Upon  returning  to  the  boarding- 
house  that  evening  we  find  our  in- 
vitations from  Madame  Latour ;  it  is 
for  the  promised  fancy  ball  to  take 
place  that  day  fortnight. 

No  one  can  make  up  their  minds 
as  to  who  or  what  he  or  she  will 
personate. 

Olga  first  thinks  of  going  as  a 
star,  next  as  a  dryad,  or  as  a  sea- 
nymph. 

"Do  go  as  an  Ophelia,"  suggests 
Mr.  Morris. 

"  Oh,  I  should  have  to  look  melan- 
choly all  the  evening  !  A  lively 
Ophelia  would  be  so  absurd." 

"  You  would  be  an  ideal  Ophelia," 
continues  Mr.  Morris.  "You  have 


182      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 

just  the  right  hair,  the  eyes,  the 
figure,  and  the  expression." 

"  The  crazy  look  in  the  eyes," 
harks  out  Horace.  "  Do  take  my 
advice,  Mademoiselle  Olga,  and  go 
in  a  costume  that  suits  your  general 
mood  and  disposition." 

"  Happy  thought !  "  exclaims  Olga. 
"  1  shall  go  as  a  diavulina — an  imp 
from  the  regions  downstairs." 

"  Thai's  right.  Hurrah  !  "  shouts 
Horace ;  u  and  I  shall  attend  the  ball 
as  his  infernal  majesty  himself,  with 
a  long  tail,  horns,  and  a  pitchfork." 

"  Convenus,"1  laughs  Olga. 

Mr.  Morris  looks  pale  and  very 
cross,  and  scowls  furiously  at  my 
cousin,  who  screams  out : 

"  Louisa,  you  might  as  well  dress 
as  an  Ophelia  ;  only  your  fat,  red 
cheeks  and  tendency  to  embonpoint 
might  be  a  little  incongruous." 


7.V  THE  STUDIO.  183 


•'  You  are  very  rude  !  I  mean  to 
go  as  a  vivandiere  des  zouaves.  In  a 
blue  vest,  scarlet  knickerbockers, 
white  waistcoat,  a  gold  kepi  on  my 
head,  and  a  little  barrel  filled  with 
cognac  at  my  side." 

"Delightful  idea.  We  shall  all 
have  a  drop  now  and  then  to  revive 
our  drooping  spirits." 

"Now,  Mr.  Morris,  how  "will  you 
dress  ?  I  particularly  wish  you  to 
look  to  advantage,*'  says  Olga,  going 
up  to  him.  Let  me  think  what  would 
suit  your  character  as  an  artist,  a  poet, 
a  philosopher."  (Olga  darts  a  saucy 
look  at  Horace,  who  is  studying 
pertinaciously  the  pattern  of  the 
carpet.)  "  I  have  it.  You  must  go 
as  Hamlet  in  the  '  Inky  clonk/  I 
order  you,  Mr.  Morris.  Now,  will 
you  ?  won't  you  obey  me  ?  " 

"I   should    have    gladly    gone  as 


184      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


Hamlet  if  you  had  consented  to  be 
Ophelia,"  whispers  Mr.  Mori-is. 

"  Oh,  that  would  have  been  too 
remarkable !  Besides  which,  I  should 
very  likehr  be  in  wild  spirits,  and  that 
would  not  do  for  Ophelia.  No,  go  as 
Hamlet,  and  I  shall  dance  the  first 
dance  with  you." 

Mr.  Morris  promises,  and  bidding 
us  good-night,  disappears  to  his  den 
upstairs. 

"  I  do  not  like  that  man,"  growls 
out  my  cousin,  the  moment  the  door 
closes  upon  Mr.  Morris  ;  "  he  is  so 
unhealthy  in  all  his  views  and  notions 
of  life.  That  artist  nature  seems  un- 
natural to  me.  It  would  do  Mr. 
Morris  a  vast  deal  of  good  to  hunt, 
shoot,  and  fish.  It  would  make  him 
manly;  his  notions  of  everything  are 
sickly,  false,  and  absurd." 

"Well,  Mr.  Dash  wood,  I  am  sur- 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  185 


prised  at  your  disobedience  !  "  ex- 
claims Olga,  standing  up  and  flushing 
with  excitement.  "  I  did  tell  you 
several  times  that  nothing  can  annoy 
me  more  than  to  hear  Mr.  Morris 
abused.  Your  idea  of  life  is  sport. 
All  right.  Mr.  Morris  loves  art;  he 
is  a  great  artist  and  musician.  He 
might  dress  better,  but  it  is  not 
affectation  on  his  part ;  simply  he  does 
not  care  about  the  cut  of  his  coat  nor 
about  the  particular  shade  of  his  neck- 
tie, etc.  Mr.  Morris  will,  I  am  sure, 
be  a  great  man  one  of  these  days. 
Meanwhile,  let  him  alone,  or  we  shall 
quarrel  seriously.  You  are  a  naughty 
boy  ;  the  more  you  abuse  Mr.  Morris 
the  more  I  shall  like  him." 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  mention  Mr. 
Morris's  name  again." 

When  Horace  is  gone,  I  ask  Olga  if 
she  thinks  that  my  cousin  is  improved. 


186      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


"I  have  not  thought  much  about 
him,  one  way  or  the  other."  ('  What 
a  story  I  '  I  inwardly  ejaculate.) 
"  He  has  good  qualities,  but  he  is 
fearfully  prejudiced.  He  is  a  type  of 
the  modern  young  man ;  no  feeling 
for  Art,  but  fond  of  sport.  He  is 
generous  and  manly." 

"I  wonder  if  he  will  ever  fall  in 
love  ?  " — saying  this  I  peep  slyly  at 
Olga  through  the  corners  of  my 
eyes. 

She  colors  up.  "I  do  not  think 
that  it  is  in  him  to  care  much  for  any 
one." 

"Well,  I  think  you  are  mistaken, 
and  I  sometimes  think  that  he  does 
actually  care  for  some  young  lady." 

"Really?  Oh!  do  tell  me  all 
about  it:  lie  is  your  cousin,  so  it  is 
natural  that  I  should  take  some 
interest  in  him." 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  187 


"  Ask  no  questions  and  I  shall  tell 
you  no  stories.  I  cannot  say  any- 
thing for  certain,  it  is  a  supposition 
on  my  part.  I  should  like  Horace  to 
marry  ;  he  would  make  a  first-rate 
husband." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  girl  you  think 
he  is  in  love  with  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  her,  she  is  a  great 
friend  of  mine."  And  I  look  hard  at 
Olga,  who  pretends  not  to  understand, 
gets  very  red,  rushes  off  to  the  piano 
and  plays  deliciously  a  valse  of  Cho- 
pin. 

The  next  morning  Olga  and  I  go 
to  Asnieres.  We  have  our  easels, 
canvases  and  painting  materials. 
When  we  reach  the  quiet  inn,  we 
perceive  mere  Gigun  at  the  door,  look- 
ing very  dismal  ;  the  child  is  sleep- 
ing. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  before  next  mouth 


188      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


he  will  be  lying  by  his  poor  mother's 
grave,  in  the  little  cimetidre  over  there, 
he  is  ebbing  away." 

We  both  go  up  to  the  bedroom.  In 
a  small  white  bed  lies  the  child,  a 
feverish  spot  on  each  cheek  :  he  opens 
his  big  eyes  and  smiles  a  welcome. 

"  We  are  come  to  paint  your  pict- 
ure," Olgasays,  kissing  him.  "  Here 
are  some  flowers  for  you." 

Victor  brightens  up,  he  is  propped 
by  pillows.  The  old  grand1  mere  sits 
close  to  him,  the  window  is  open,  and 
an  acacia  tree  in  full  bloom  casts  a 
delicious  fragrance  ;  a  cage  with  two 
canaries  stands  on  the  sill. 

I  sketch  the  room  as  it  is  ;  the  sick 
child  sitting  up  playing  with  the  flow- 
ers, the  grancCmere  with  her  wrinkled 
face  and  sweet,  sad  gray  eyes  and 
snowy  hair,  making  such  a  contrast  to 
the  spiritual,  unearthly  face  of  the  wee 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  189 


grandson.  The  old  woman  knits  a 
brown  woollen  stocking,  and  a  tear 
now  and  then  drops  on  her  hands  as 
she  looks  at  the  child. 

Olga,  while  painting,  tells  Victor 
a  story  of  a  little  boy  who  was  carried 
away  by  the  fairies,  and  is  still  living 
with  them  in  a  beautiful  blue  palace 
up  in  the  clouds  ;  he  is  the  only  little 
boy  there,  the  fairies  are  very  fond  of 
of  him,  pet  him  much,  so  he  is  quite 
happy. 

Victor's  expression  gets  more  and 
more  ideal  and  Olga's  portrait  is  grow- 
ing wonderfully  like. 

"  What  a  treasure  it  will  be  to  us  !  " 
exclaims  the  old  woman.  "  We  shall 
prize  it,  oh  so  much,  mademoiselle  !  " 

"  Why  do  you  look  so  triste,  grancF- 
mere  ?  Suppose  the  fairies  take  me 
away  up  in  their  blue  palace,  you,  papa, 
and  mademoiselle  must  come  also." 


190      IX  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


A  tap  at  the  door  ;  a  fine  stalwart 
ouurier  in  a  blue  blouse  comes  in  ; 
his  face  is  sunburnt,  but  very  hand- 
some. He  bows  respectfully  to  us, 
hopes  that  lie  does  not  disturb  us,  and 
going  up  to  Victor  kisses  him. 

"  How  are  you,  mon  fih  f  " 

"  Better,  petit  pere.  Look  at  the 
pictures  the  ladies  are  painting  of  me." 

"  With  your  permission,  mademoi- 
selle," and  he  looks  at  Olga's  work. 
"  It  is  a  very  good  likeness  ;  the  ex- 
pression is  perhaps  a  little  more  sad, 
main  c'est  bien  lui  !  The  eyes  are 
perfect,  just  the  color  and  the  ex- 
pression." 

Then  he  comes  round  to  look  at 
mine. 

"  Ah,  that  will  make  a  capital 
picture,  old  age  and  childhood.  I 
compliment  you  upon  your  artistic 
talent." 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  191 


"  Is  he  not  a  type  of  the  best  kind  of 
French  workman  ?  so  intelligent,  re- 
fined, and  so  artistic  ?  "  whispers  Olga 
to  me.  "  Well,  how  are  you  getting 
on,  Monsieur  Lenoir  ?  "  she  continues, 
addressing  the  ouvrier. 

"  Pretty  well,  mademoiselle,  the 
commerce  is  just  beginning  to  get  on, 
and  we  must  work  hard." 

"  I  do  admire  the  French  workman 
so  much  !  "  says  Olga.  "  Lenoir  is 
not  an  exception ;  no,  as  a  rule,  the 
ouvriers  are  honest,  intelligent,  and 
refined  ;  such  a  contrast,  so  superior 
to  those  horrid  little  men  one  meets 
on  the  boulevards,  sipping  cafe, 
absinthe,  and  emi  de  vie." 

But  it  is  now  getting  too  dark  to 
work,  so  kissing  Victor,  we  go  down 
stairs  and  have  a  quiet  little  dinner 
in  the  garden. 


19-J     IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


VI. 

A  FEW  evenings  after  this  sad 
visit  Horace  comes  into  my  room, 
looking  rather  meek,  and,  indeed, 
sheepish. 

"  I  know,"  he  says,  "  that  you  are 
going  to  laugh  at  me.  Can  you 
guess  what  I  have  done  ?  "  and  he 
stares  uncomfortably  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Well,  I  think  I  can  guess,"  I 
reply  laughing. 

"  Oh  yes  !  you  can  laugh.  Go  on. 
Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  Why,  you  silly  old  boy,  you  have 
of  course  fallen  head  over  ears  in 
love  with  that  little  sprite,  Olga, 
though  she  is  a  Bohemian,  a  Radical, 
an  artist,  independent;  in  fact,  the 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  193 

very  contrary  of  what  you  pretend  to 
admire/' 

"  Well,  you  have  found  me  out !  " 
and  he  colors  up  very  much ;  "  but 
the  wonder  of  wonders  is,  that  she 
cares  a  little  for  me,  also,  and  has 
consented  to  become  my  wife  !  " 

"  Nothing  surprises  me,  she  is  such 
an  inconsistent  little  damsel.  She 
declared  to  me  not  many  weeks  ago 
that  she  would  never  marry  ;  but  I 
am  so  glad  that  she  has  so  soon 
changed  her  mind.  You  are  to  be 
congratulated,  for  she  is  a  charming- 
girl,  though  she  is  fond  of  art,  and 
a  Radical." 

"  It  was  at  the  funeral  of  poor  lit- 
tle Victor  that  I  decided  upon  pro- 
posing to  her.  A  look  she  gave  me, 
a  general  something  in  her  demeanor 
that  morning,  made  me  feel  that  I 
was  not  indifferent  to  her;  and  Olga 
13 


194      JN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


tells  me  that  my  kindness  to  the 
child  made  her  care  for  me  against 
her  will." 

So  the  poor  little  fellow  was  the 
unconscious  means  of  making  up  a 
match. 

I  rush  off  to  Olga's  room.  I  find 
her  lying  full  length  upon  the  hearth- 
rug ;  her  cheeks  are  very  flushed  and 
her  eyes  sparkling. 

On  seeing  me  she  throws  a  hand- 
kerchief over  her  i'ace,  saying,  ••  What 
will  you  think  of  me,  Louise?  I  am 
really  ashamed,  and  cry  peccavi  ; 
but  T  really  feel  so  happy.  I  did  not 
think  it  possible  for  me  ever  to  care 
for  any  one  again,  and  I  now  find 
that  I  never  really  loved  either  num- 
ber one  or  number  two.  I  have  told 
your  cousin  all  about  those  previous 
affairs ;  he  is  such  a  good  fellow,  he 
does  not  mind  at  all.  Don't  laugh 


IN  THE  STUDIO.  195 


at  me  too  much,  I  am  sure  you  must 
think  me  a  very  odd  girl." 

"  Indeed  I  do  ;  that  is  your  charm 
— so  unlike  everybody  else.  But  I 
congratulate  you,  you  and  Horace 
will  be  very  happy  together." 

"  I  shall  leave  the  boarding-house 
as  soon  as  T  have  packed  up  all  my 
pretty  things,  and  have  them  all  sent 
to  London." 

"  You  will  come  and  stay  at  our 
house  till  the  wedding  ?  " 

"Just  what  I  should  like.  I  have 
no  home,  no  relatives,  no  one  in  the 
world.  Horace  will  now  be  every- 
thing to  me." 


* 
* 


THE  fancy  ball  at  Madame  Latour's 
studio  is  a  great  success.  It  is  a 
picnic  ball ;  the  ladies  send  the  eat- 
ables, the  men  the  wines.  Olga  and 


196      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PA  HIS. 

I  sent  a  tremendous  pdt£  defoie  gran 
and  a  boar's  head. 

The  atelier  looks  quite  grand, 
brilliantly  illuminated  and  festooned 
with  flowers  and  evergreens,  and  a 
long  table  laden  with  all  the  delica- 
cies of  the  season.  Olga  is  the  belle 
of  the  ball,  as  a  diavolina  in  scarlet, 
gold,  and  black  skirts ;  little  gold 
horns  in  her  hair,  a  pitchfork  in  her 
hand,  and  black  and  red  flames 
worked  into  the  patterns  of  her 
dress. 

Horace  changed  his  mind,  and  dis- 
guised himself  as  a  wolf.  His  tail 
was  constantly  trodden  upon,  and 
then  he  would  roar  lustily,  to  the 
great  amusement  of  everybody.  He 
and  Olga  were  in  high  spirits. 
Naturally,  poor  Mr.  Morris,  having 
heard  of  their  engagement  (such 
secrets  always  get  known),  did  not 


IJf  THE  STUDIO.  197 

appear  at  the  ball ;  a  sure  sign  that 
lie  really  cared  for  Olga. 

Mr.  Blake  is  disguised  as  an  orange- 
tree,  Miss  Magee  as  a  shepherdess. 
It  is  noticed  by  many  that  she  rests 
continually  under  that  particular 
tree,  and  that  the  tree  hovers  contin- 
ually over  her. 

My  costume  of  vivandiere  is  a 
great  success.  One  particular  gentle- 
man, whose  name  I  shall  not  divulge, 
drank  more  cognac  out  of  my  barrel 
than  was  good  for  him. 

Madame  Latour  looks  very  fine  as 
Queen  of  the  Night,  all  in  black 
tulle,  witli  silver  stars,  a  crescent 
moon  in  her  dark  hair,  and  a  stuffed 
owl  perched  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Well,  Olga,  so  you  are  going  to 
give  up  art  for  matrimony?  I  am 
grieved  to  hear  this  piece  of  news; 
you  cannot  serve  two  masters.  You 
will  fail." 


198      AV  THE  MIDST  OF  P Alt  IS. 


"  Yes,  madame,  I  shall  paint  more 
than  ever.  I  do  not  see  why  a 
woman  should  become  a  nonentity 
when  she  marries.  I  shall  have  a 
studio  in  our  town-house ;  besides  we 
shall  be  six  months  every  year  on  the 
Continent." 

"  We  shall  see, "  growls  Madame 
Latour.  "  Do  not  believe  the  prom- 
ises made  before  marriage.  Tell  me 
what  Mr.  Dash  wood  says  after  the 
ceremony  is  over.  No,  I  am  disap- 
pointed ;  you  ought  not  to  have  prom- 
ised me  to  give  yourself  entirely  to 
art,  and  then,  when  a  handsome 
young  fellow  comes  over  here,  you 
give  up  everything  for  him.  Viola 
lesfemmes  / — no  tenacity,  no  decision 
of  character,  no  strong  will." 

"  I  am  catching  it,"  whispers  Olga 
to  me;  "but  it  is  no  use  my  trying 
to  persuade  Madame  that  I  shall  paint 


7-.Y  THE  STUDIO.  199 


pictures  after  my  marriage  ;  but  I 
will,  and  very  likely  I  shall  make 
Horace  study  art." 

A  few  days  after  the  ball,  Horace 
departs,  Uranie  calling  him  a'-varrie 
naughtie  boy."  He  feels  he  deserves 
the  reproach  ;  he  gives  Uraine  twenty 
francs  to  pacify  her,  and  tells  her 
that  she  must  not  abuse  him  when  he 
is  gone. 

Mr.  Morris  leaves  the  pension  with- 
out bidding  Olga  or  me  good-bye. 
There  is  a  report  that  he  is  engaged 
to  be  married  to  the  wily  widow,  who 
has  been  making  herself  strong  in 
Art,  and  copying  at  the  Louvre. 

Mr.  Blake  goes  to  Cork  to  visit 
his  family;  it  is  rather  a  curious  co- 
incidence that  Miss  Magee  and  her 
mother  should  be  going  over  to  Erin 
at  that  particular  time.  Miss 
Hutchinson  has  ofone  to  New  York 


200      IN  THE  MIDST  OF  PARIS. 


to  study  the  institutions  of  the  mighty 
republic.  Olga  and  I,  with  great 
regret,  bid  adieu  to  Madame  Dupont, 
and  all  the  inmates  of  the  pension. 

We  leave  on  a  sultry  morning  at 
the  end  of  June.  Uranie  has  tears 
in  her  eyes  as  she  bids  us  adieu,  and 
declares  that  we  really  are  "  varrie 
naughtie  "  to  leave.  When  we  reach 
the  station  we  do  not  find  either  Mr. 
Morris  or  Mr.  Blake  awaiting  us ; 
and  it  is  with  mixed  feelings  of 
pleasure  and  pain  that  Olga  and  I 
leave  bright,  beautiful  Paris  for  dreary 
London  ;  but  Olga  declares,  with  a 
blush,  that  it  will  no  longer  be  dismal, 
but  delightful. 


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